


Enemies with Benefits

by DrusillaMaxima



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunk Sex, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, Office Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-08-24 04:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8358286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrusillaMaxima/pseuds/DrusillaMaxima
Summary: Dramione smut with a bit of plot.  After their respective bitter breakups, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger coincidentally end up drunk together at the same work party.  Despite their mutual hatred, they somehow end up shagging in one of the Ministry's offices.  But what was supposed to be a one-night-stand just keeps repeating itself in various ways...





	1. Percy's Office

**Author's Note:**

> This work is cross-posted to FF.net, where it is complete in 16 chapters (so I apologize - usually I take suggestions on where the story goes, but I can't in this case). The story immediately begins with smut and drunkenness, so if that's not for you... click back!

Ron cried. His whole body shook; he huddled on the edge of their corduroy sofa. He lifted one arm and wiped his dripping nose with the arm of his Chudley Cannons jumper. Hermione stood in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for whatever whatever he wanted to admit. The news had to be important - and unpleasant - as he'd told her to leave work early.

"What is it?" Hermione demanded after a five-minute silence, punctuated only by Ron's sobs.

Ron sniffled. "I'm so sorry, 'Mione."

She'd always hated that nickname; it was too cutesy, too childish. Only Ron used it, and only when he'd been drinking or when he bollocksed up. But Ron had never been this upset, and a thread of worry wound through Hermione's abdomen. At first, she thought he'd done something stupid, but ultimately forgivable - quit his job with the Cannons, or forgotten to file his tax returns, or got caught flying his broomstick while drunk.

Now, she suspected it was far worse.

"I'm just so sorry, I didn't mean for it to get this bad..."

"Just tell me!" she snapped.

"Well... I... I got drunk after that big game in Dublin last month... "

Hermione rolled her eyes and stopped pacing for a moment. "You get drunk after every game, Ron."

"Yeah, but I got really drunk at that one. I had really, really bad judgment."

"Because you were angry that Harry and I were at that Muggle conference together," Hermione muttered. "I remember. You know that Harry and I are like brother and sister. Your jealousy's gotten ridiculous lately. But I told you I forgave you and I meant it."

"I know, I know, but... me getting angry wasn't everything." His voice was a trembled whisper now. "I fucked up so badly."

She stared him down in silence, and he shot her a pleading look.

"Lavender just happened to be there, 'Mione. Her brother plays for Belfast..."

Hermione's stomach flipped. She had a nauseating suspicion where this conversation was headed. Her eyes fluttered closed as Ron finished the sentence.

"We slept together." His voice seemed to echo with its finality; after a pause, he began to babble. "I was so stupid, Hermione. I felt jealous of you and Harry, I was lonely, and I was drunk, and I'd just lost the game, and me and Lavender were at Temple Bar reminiscing about old times at school..."

Hermione's head pounded, and she could barely think. Ron and Lavender. Again. It was a horrible redux of sixth year; long-suppressed feelings of uncertainty and ugliness came roaring back to life.

But, given Ron's impulsivity after the war, and how tough he'd taken his brother's death, she at least could fractionally understand. Perhaps, with time, they could get over this. They could do couples counseling - after all, they were engaged, and their wedding was already scheduled for December, and they were in love...

"Hermione, she's pregnant."

It took her mind a moment to process what he'd just said. Hermione felt like she'd been kicked in the gut. It was over. In that one, crashing moment, all of her dreams of red-headed children, a house in London, and growing old with Ron - it was all crushed.

He looked up at her with watery eyes. "Hermione, are you all right? You're just staring at me."

"Ron," she whispered. "Get out."

**************

Draco Malfoy stared down at the parchment from his so-called fiancee.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_It is with regret that I cease further nuptial negotiations with your family. I have returned all jewellery you have given me as gifts in the past six months; you shall find all pieces and a written inventory in your Gringott's account._

_Yours truly,_

_Miss Astoria C. L. Greengrass_

She hadn't even the fortitude to give him a reason. Through his sources, he learned that Astoria had been secretly negotiating with Zabini's family for the past month. It seemed that Zabini's name didn't carry the taint that Malfoy did. After all, Draco's father had just been sent to Azkaban, and Draco's mother was from a family of known psychotics. And in this new world of Muggle acceptance, Astoria thought that the Malfoy family had left their golden years behind.

It was galling.

Draco wondered if Astoria knew that Blaise was a poofter; though being a poofter certainly wasn't a dealbreaker for pureblood marriage negotiations. Hell, Draco had often wondered if his Aunt Bellatrix swung toward women; she hadn't liked Uncle Rodolphus much, and seemed to have a sick interest in Granger.

A soft voice interrupted his ruminations. "Hey, mate."

He looked up to see Percy Weasley standing in the doorway to his cubicle. Weasley was a sycophant, and not a very good one, but Draco had built up an odd and unexpected - well, friendship, he supposed - with Percy. Both worked in the Magical Policy Division, Percy as a first-class adviser, Malfoy as an intern.

Not that Malfoy particularly wanted to be a lackey for the Ministry, but he'd been "strongly encouraged" to do so in order to have all charges dropped against him. And while he hated work, he secretly admitted Percy had been undeservedly tolerable to him.

"You all right, Malfoy?" Percy asked.

Malfoy knew he must look like shite, if Percy had noticed.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Percy glanced down at the parchment. "It's not as if I'm a gossip, if you want to sound off a bit."

Malfoy sighed. "Astoria Greengrass just dumped me for Zabini."

Percy gawked at him. "But I thought Zabini liked men."

"Oh, he does. But he's rich, and apparently his family's reputation is on the upswing, unlike mine. So I suppose that outweighs the fact that he'll find Astoria as sexually interesting as a doorknob." Malfoy pursed his lips. "At this rate, I'll only be able to contract marriage with one of the heftier Bulstrode girls."

He quickly stuffed the letter in his pocket and began to clear away his workspace. Percy watched him for a moment, as if toying with an idea.

"Malfoy."

"Hmm?"

"There's a ministry event tonight. All the managers have been invited - it's a commemorative event for the Knight Bus disaster last year."

"That's nice." Malfoy frowned, making it clear that he didn't find it nice at all.

"Watch your tone, Malfoy. I'm about to send you in my place, if you want to go. I know Goyle might be there, and there's an open bar." He paused. "I'm supposed to sit at Shacklebolt's table."

Draco caught the subtext - that he could probably talk up the Minister and make a good impression, and at worst, he could get totally blitzed with his friend on the Ministry dime.

"Why don't you want to go, Weasley?"

"To be honest, I don't care about the death of seven purebloods who were drunk on a bus and died because they set off fireworks inside." He frowned in disapproval. "Besides, I'm supposed to see a show with Audrey. It might be useful for you, Malfoy, to be on your best behaviour..."

"Fine. All right." Draco sighed, cutting off Percy's inevitable lecture. "And, yes, Weasley, I promise to behave myself. No comments about blood purity or my role in the war. I'll just compliment you and the Minister all night."

Percy seemed satisfied at that, nodded, and headed out the door. "Seven o' clock, at the main floor reception hall."

**************

Malfoy wasn't seated with Kingsley Shacklebolt. It seemed the Minister hadn't wanted to attend the event, either. He'd sent Hermione Granger, Manager of Magical Creatures Division, in his stead.

And Draco knew something was off, because Granger barely looked his way when he arrived and seated himself next to her. She hadn't even mustered up a comment about ferrets.

Watching her for a moment, it became eminently clear who had distracted Granger - she kept shooting frosty glares over at Lavender Brown's table. He idly wondered why Brown was here - she was a hairdresser, not a Ministry employee - then recalled that Brown's uncle had been one of the inbred halfwits who'd offed themselves on the Knight Bus.

Malfoy had not been sorted into Slytherin for nothing, and he noticed several small details about the two young women that most would have missed.

Brown looked terrified of Granger. As the salad course arrived, Brown removed a phial of blue potion - from the colour, either nausea suppressant or foot-growth potion, and he figured the first was the more likely option - and downed it, then glanced guiltily back at Granger. Most interestingly, Brown drank only herbal tea, despite her reputation as a borderline alcoholic.

Granger, on the other hand, was knocking back white wine like water. She'd drained one generous glass, and had gestured to a house-elf to bring another. And, as she brought the glass to her lips, Malfoy noticed something else - Granger's engagement ring, a tacky concoction of pink opals and gold that had been splashed across every magazine when she'd gotten engaged, was conspicuously absent from her hand.

His suspicions were almost unbelievably juicy. Surely the Weasel wouldn't be that stupid? Surely he wouldn't knock up some low-class, mediocre-looking hairdresser when he had Wizarding Britain's Sweetheart as his fiancee?

Surely not.

But as he watched Granger grow a bit more tipsy, watched as her self-control lowered and unbridled rage was reflected in her stare, he knew he was onto something. Something he might use to his advantage.

"Granger."

Her head snapped toward him. "What, Malfoy?"

He nearly flinched at the anger in her voice. He'd never heard Granger so hateful, not even when she was calling him an brain-dead ferret back at school.

"If you keep staring at Brown like that," he whispered so only they could hear, "everyone will know about your little issue by the end of the night. Or, at least, will be suspicious."

There, that was vague enough to confirm his suspicions without committing to any firm knowledge. Granger's horrified expression told him everything he needed to know.

"How do you know? She only found out four days ago, and only told Ron!" Hermione gaped. "Does everyone..."

"Obviously not. If they did you'd be getting pitying glances and Brown would have to hole herself up somewhere to avoid the pro-Granger hordes." He paused. "I'm simply observant."

"So what, are you going to blackmail me now?" she snapped.

He'd considered it. Granger was smart enough to recognize the risk of blackmail. But manipulation came more naturally for him, and he was already two steps ahead.

"What would be the benefit in me blackmailing you with Brown's indelicate behaviour?" he asked. "Soon enough, this will all come out. And when it does, you'll be the victim. You'll be the pretty, young war hero, wronged by some sluttish nobody and Weasley's wandering eye. He can't very well lie about his cheating ways, since he was still talking about your impending nuptials as recently as Monday. No, Granger, it's much better for me to stay on your good side."

"At least your priorities are still in order," she muttered. "The universe hasn't gone totally haywire as long as the Malfoys are trying to come out on top."

She stared down at her plate and poked at some overcooked string beans. Her eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. And Draco realized that Granger was just as bored at this thing as he was. She watched him without comment as he knocked back a shot of whiskey in one go, then ordered a double.

"Are you even a Ministry employee, Malfoy?" she asked after a moment.

"I am. I'm Percy Weasley's intern, and have been for the past year," he muttered, "I thought everyone knew about that shithole my probation officer stuck me in. Wasn't it enough to put magical restrictions on my wand?"

She laughed at that, loudly enough that their table-mates looked her way with open curiosity.

"Magical Policy with Perce." She lifted her glass to her lips. "I never thought I'd meet someone with a job that's more shite than mine, but congrats, Malfoy, you win. I suppose it had to happen once in your life."

"It's not that bad," he muttered, "at least, Percy's not that bad. A bit of an idiot, but... the work itself is horrible." He lifted his glass. "At least we get some alcohol on the Ministry's purse."

In an odd moment of cameraderie, she lifted her own glass and gave him a small nod. Draco downed his double shot of whiskey, and Hermione drained her glass. A house elf brought two more; Draco and Hermione stared at one another for a moment before silently competing by draining them again. The house elf filled the glasses again, and Draco's head started to become fuzzy as he drained yet another glass, and his boredom began to slip away...

...Hermione glanced up at the clock.

"My God, Malfoy," she said, over-enunciating her words, "It's nine fifty! Nearly everyone's gone."

Malfoy shrugged. "Whatever, Granger. I was just trying to drink the maximum possible free booze, but now they've closed the bar."

"Well, I suppose that's it, then, I'd better go home." She stood up unsteadily. "You know, thanks for being nice to me tonight. Your conversation's not half-bad when you lay off the mudblood stuff."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Granger." He paused, wondering if Sober Malfoy would regret what he was about to do. "You want to go up to my office? I bet you've never been in the policy division. And Weasley keeps a bottle of scotch in his desk that we can nip into."

"That's theft, Malfoy!"

"Borrowing," he said matter-of-factly. "I need it. Weasley'll understand."

She shot him a disbelieving look.

"Really," he said. "Weasley knows what shite I've been through lately."

"Really? I suppose... all right then."

Which was how the two of them ended up sitting in Percy Weasley's office, sharing a cone-shaped paper water cup filled to the brim with Glenfiddich. Hermione sat on the edge of the desk, swinging her legs back and forth; Malfoy sat in the desk chair directly in front of her. She wasn't afraid of him, that was obvious; and she actually seemed rather relaxed. Malfoy wondered, raking his eyes across her small waist and long legs, when she'd become so pretty.

"So why'd you need to get drunk?" she asked. "You said you needed this."

And suddenly, that relaxed moment vanished. Malfoy scowled into the cup, and when he looked up, he caught a flash of apologetic embarrassment flicker in her brown eyes. Granger always was pretty tactless, he remembered. He briefly considered lying to spare his pride, then thought better of it. What did he lose to tell the truth? In fact, Granger might even feel a bit of sympathy at his plight.

"My fiancee dumped me for a gay man."

She stared at him a moment, then began to laugh. He tried not to let his embarrassment show, and eventually she quieted.

"You're joking, right?"

He tossed her the letter from Astoria, and after she skimmed it, she dissolved once again into peals of laughter.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy, but anyone who takes one look at Zabini knows he's queerer than a two-headed nail." She handed back the page. "For God's sake, he teaches zumba for a living."

"I know that, Granger. Everyone knows that."

She shrugged. "Maybe she's asexual and she's actually spared you a passionless marriage."

"Somehow, I suspect her passion is fired more by money than anything else." He scowled and banished the letter. "I got dumped by Pansy too. She got knocked up by some stupid rich German who owns a mountain. He had to marry her after that."

She smiled for a moment before realizing the parallels to Lavender Brown and Ron.

"Just like Weasley's dumb bint. All you women are the same," Malfoy continued bitterly. "Money and status. That's all that matters."

"Pureblood women," Hermione said matter-of-factly, "are raised to value those things. Not muggle women. Not to mention, you're generalizing fifty percent of the population."

He rolled his eyes.

"No, really, Malfoy. I've never dated for money or status..."

"That much is obvious. Krum? He couldn't mumble out a word of recognizable English. Weasley? I don't even have to comment, he speaks for himself."

Hermione protested, "Ron's not such a bad guy..."

"Ronald Weasley is a man-child, without a sense of responsibility or conviction." Malfoy paused. "Much as it pains me to admit it, he's your inferior."

"He's a pureblood," Hermione said slowly, intently watching Malfoy's face. "And I, as you've reminded me a thousand times, am not."

"He's your inferior." Malfoy repeated, taking a swig of whiskey, then throwing up one frustrated hand at Hermione's puzzlement. "For fuck's sake, Granger, nobody was quite sure what you saw in him. He's not as intelligent as you. He's not personable. He's not ambitious. He's not on par with you in the looks department, so what is it?"

Her face flamed. Had Malfoy really just complimented her intelligence and looks?

"Oh, stop looking at me like you've seen a three headed troll," he snapped. "The alcohol's doing the talking."

She ignored that, and hesitantly answered his question. "What was it about Ron? He's sweet and easy to understand. I suppose nobody else really ever had much interest, and he really is my friend even if he can be a bit dim and impulsive..."

He snorted. "Weasley had plenty of competition. There were several boys who desperately wanted in your knickers at Hogwarts. Don't give me that look, it's true."

She rolled her eyes. "Name one. And not Goldstein, he wanted in every girl's knickers."

She shot him a mischievous smile. But, as his eyes darkened and his brows drew together, her grin vanished. His expression became hard. She recognized it as the same intensely resolute expression he got before a Quidditch game. Perhaps her ribbing had gone too far; been too familiar for someone she barely knew. Had assumed - wrongly - that he'd changed.

As he moved, she realized she'd misinterpreted his expression as menacing.

He reached out and settled one hand on her hip, gently, lightly, and she recognized that he was giving her the opportunity to flee. Her heartbeat thudded in her chest, but the only reaction she could manage under his hard gaze was to lick her lips. His other hand settled on the other hip. After a pause, he tightened his grip and pulled her toward him. It was an unspoken command for her to slide forward and onto his lap. She hesitated.

"Live a little. Come on, Granger." He paused. "Hermione."

"Only if you promise you're not going to sober up and start shouting 'mudblood' at me."

He chuckled throatily. "If I do, consider it a cover for the fact that I've wanted to shag you for years."

That convinced her, and she threw caution to the wind. It was Malfoy, but it was also a Malfoy who was complimentary, drunk, and bizarrely honest. And pretty fit.

She slid into his lap, facing him in the desk chair. He snaked one arm around her waist to keep her from sliding off; she was precariously perched on top of his thighs. His other hand slid up her spine and to the nape of her neck. He pushed her head closer to his. His eyes fluttered closed, and hers did the same.

His lips met hers. He knew what he was doing, and took control of the kiss; his fingers laced through her hair, gently stroking that sensitive bit of skin beneath her ear. His lips parted, and before she had the time to think it through, his tongue was inside her mouth. He tasted of whiskey and butterscotch candy. She responded in kind, her lips caressing his. As she did, she felt him harden against her thigh.

When his hand slid down from her neck and rested on her breast, she didn't protest. His thumb searched for her nipple, and when he couldn't find it, he muttered, "Fuck, what are you wearing under this blouse?"

"Hmm," she said, feeling incredibly un-virtuous, "there's nothing stopping you from finding out."

The momentary look that flashed across his face was priceless - a mixture of gawping and thankfulness. And then excited fingers were at her buttons, fumbling as he tried to undo them. After a moment, he swore and decided just to yank the two sides apart. Round pearls rained down onto the tile flooring. The silky blouse fell open, revealing her black lace brassiere. His eyes stayed locked on it for a moment. Experimentally, she wriggled a bit on his lap, in turn, rubbing her thigh against his protruding hardness.

"Granger, I hope you're not a tease," he mumbled, "you're as sexy as I imagined you'd be. Better... I'm going to laugh my arse off next time someone calls you a prude, or a bookworm..."

She cut him off with another kiss. His hand pushed up her bra, and she felt his thumb rub the very peak of her nipple. Growing more confident, he pinched it, and she let out a moan. Her hand reached down and rubbed between his legs, and she cupped his sac through his wool trousers.

"Granger..."

"Mmm, Malfoy?"

"Am I getting shagged tonight?"

Her snort turned into a gasp as his mouth latched onto her throat's pulse point. "I... ah... should think that was rather obvious."

With that, he was a flurry of movement. He lifted her off his lap, stood, and shoved her back onto the desk. She let out a startled squeak. His hands shaky with uncoordinated hurry, he reached for his fly and, after some effort, freed himself. His trousers dropped to the ground, and she could see the outline of his cock straining within his briefs.

She knew this would be no slow and romantic coupling. No, this was fucking, alcohol-fuelled and urgent. He grabbed her skirt and pushed it up to her waist. He paused at the sight of her fluorescent pink thong, and ran one finger over the cotton. The feel of his hand through the fabric sent a jolt through her, and she whimpered.

He said nothing, but smirked as he felt the damp spot. With one hand, he yanked the thong down to hang halfway down her legs. His hands clamped around her thighs, pulling her forward so that she lay on the desk, and he stood at the edge, his cock lined up to fuck her while he stood. She felt the straining, thick head butting between her legs.

"I've imagined this..." he muttered, and shot her a questioning look.

She answered the unspoken question by wrapping her legs around his arse and nudging him inside. He was in no mood for gentleness, and he responded by grabbing her hips and thrusting up hard. She let out a startled squeak at the intrusion. His cock was larger than she had taken before, and she winced as her walls stretched to accommodate him. When she looked up, his eyes were closed, and his mouth hung slack, enjoying the sensation.

"God, you're tight." He sighed after a moment. "I'm moulding you to me."

He slid out. The friction felt unbearable, and her only thought was that he must, must keep moving.

She had nothing to worry about; he slammed into her with a grunt, pulled out, and slammed back in. He kept up this unyielding force, unyielding pace, all the while pinning her hips to the desk and using them as leverage. She could feel the fire curling between her legs, and let out a desperate mewl. He smirked, clearly pleased with the reaction he was eliciting.

His hand released her hip, and began mauling her left breast. Two fingers rubbed lightly over her hardened nipple. She arched her chest up into his hand, and with more confidence, he pinched it. From her throat ripped a desperate, strangled moan. He grunted and picked up his pace. He pinched her nipple hard, and a thrum of pain arced to her core. It sent her over the edge.

She let out a yowl as she came. Her body tensed, and she flailed violently against him. Her walls clamped tight around his cock, milking it. She had never felt anything as violent, as primal, in her previous sexual encounters, and she lost herself completely in a fit of pleasure.

It sent him over the edge. She heard him grunt loudly, like an animal, and grip her hips tight as he thrust one hard, final time deep within her. She felt his release, warm and wet, deep, flowing inside of her pussy. He collapsed atop her, panting heavily. When he looked up, his silver eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion.

For a moment, she worried. Would he now go back to calling her names, like the Malfoy from her childhood? Would he call her a whore, or a mudblood? Would he consider this an awful, terrible mistake?

"Granger," he finally said, and his lips quirked into a small smile. "You're an incredible fuck."

Though his words were crude, there was no vitriol to them; in fact, he sounded almost awed. She relaxed, knowing he would not turn on her.

"Malfoy." She smiled back. "You were pretty fucking incredible yourself."

With a regretful wince, he slipped out, leaving a wet trail across her thigh. He offered her his hand to help her up off the table. Her legs trembled. He noticed, because he glanced at them and smirked once again.

She laughed softly. "I didn't even get your shirt off."

"Well there's always next time," he said, then froze, realizing the implication of what he'd just said. "I mean... never mind."

She picked up her thong and slid it on, then began wriggling down her out-of-place bra and skirt. Malfoy slid his trousers back on, then picked up her blouse. He flipped out his wand, and Hermione wondered what he was doing.

"Accio Hermione's buttons." They flew into his hand, and pointed the wand at the blouse. "Reparo."

The buttons neatly stitched themselves back on, and he handed the blouse to her.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Oddly, she felt more exposed as he watched her dress than she had when they were fucking. There was nothing lascivious about his gaze, but he intently watched her fingers as she buttoned up her blouse.

"Are you okay to get home?" he asked.

She smiled as she slipped on one shoe that had fallen off during the encounter. "I walk home alone every day after work, Malfoy."

"I know, but it's different..." His cheeks pinkened, and he looked at the floor. "Anyhow, it's probably best if you're not seen with me. Especially... well, you look a bit rumpled."

She felt a pang. He didn't want to be seen with her. She moved to the door.

"'Bye Granger..." he called out. "It was... good seeing you again."

She nodded mutely, and walked out, leaving him alone in Percy's office.

Draco flopped into Percy's chair and rubbed his eyes. After a moment staring at the door, he reached for the whiskey bottle, and poured himself another.


	2. In A Boardroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as the tin says - sexual content and foul language ahead! Only this, time, neither Hermione nor Draco can use alcohol as an excuse for searching each other out...

The Ministry dinner had been on Friday, and Hermione had spent her weekend agonizing over her encounter with Malfoy. When she and Ginny had gone out for lunch on Saturday, Hermione had scanned the restaurant for him; when she had walked through Diagon Alley on Sunday, she'd scanned the street for a shock of blonde hair.

She hadn't seen him at all. And she knew that these obsessive thoughts were dangerous. She was setting herself up for hurt. It had been a one-night stand with a particularly poor choice of partner. Malfoy probably had already forgotten it, and seeing him again would simply be awkward and painful.

But on Monday, she kept thinking about him. In her three years at the Ministry, she had never actually gone down to the Policy Division. She had seen Malfoy only fleetingly since leaving school. She'd never even realized he was a Ministry employee, for God's sake. But after sitting in her desk for two hours, her mind flashing back to their encounter on Percy's desk, she had to do something. Without even fully considering her plan, she left her office.

Imelda, Hermione's latest secretary, sat outside Hermione's office, reading a real estate magazine. The girl flushed and slapped the magazine shut at her boss's entrance. Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. The other two employees in the Magical Creatures Division all looked equally bored at their desks.

"Imelda, do we have any policy initiatives going on?"

"Um... not really, Miss Granger. Just a regulation we were hoping to pass through last year regarding the disturbance of unicorn mating grounds."

"It's September. Why hasn't it happened yet?"

"Well," Imelda flushed, knowing Hermione would not like the answer, "it's not the highest priority, according to Mr. Weasley, and he hasn't any policy advisers available to take the lead on the project..."

Hermione raised one eyebrow. She did not like that answer at all. And the fact that following up would take her to Malfoy's desk was just a happy coincidence.

"I'm going to have to follow up on this myself." Hermione pursed her lips and stalked out.

She walked down the corridor toward the elevators. Her face was pink, knowing that deep down, she didn't particularly care about the unicorn mating grounds regulation. And worse, she had no clue how Malfoy would even react once he saw her. God, she felt pathetic - and yet her feet kept propelling her further toward the elevators. She could barely mutter out hello when people she knew passed her.

As she approached the elevator doors, they slid open. She stopped dead in her tracks as Malfoy stepped out.

He was clearly as startled to see her as she was to see him, but he recovered first.

"Miss Granger." He paused, and his eyes flickered down to the papers in his hands. She stepped closer, feeling awkward, and spotted the label on his papers - _Regulation Proposal: Unicorn Mating Grounds._

"You came to see me," she said; it wasn't a question.

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded sharply. Her heart sang, even though she knew she was probably reading too much into it. But then his eyes caught hers. She saw his Adam's apple bob, the quirk of his head, the deepness of his gaze, and the way his breathing quickened. There was no denying his intent, and she suspected her desire was just as transparent to him.

"There's a free boardroom over here where we can discuss the draft regulation, Malfoy," she said, her voice just a tad too loud.

"Right," he muttered, his head swivelling around, checking to see if anyone was watching.

He followed her into the nearby boardroom. As soon as the door shut, his wand was out. A quick charm locked the door and snapped the blinds shut. Without a word, they were on each other, divesting each other's clothes, devouring each other's mouths, shoving each other toward the table.

She managed to unpeel his robe and undershirt before he pushed her down onto the tabletop. His hands skimmed over her satin top, searching for the fastenings.

"Where the hell..." he mumbled.

"On the back. A zip," she replied.

He grabbed her shoulders and rolled her over. She was too startled to resist, and found herself face-down on the table, feeling a rush of cold air as he slid the zipper down and yanked her dress down, first off her arms, then to pool on the ground. Her warm skin met the cold melamine tabletop, and she shivered. Malfoy's hands reached under the table and began to slide into her bra.

"You have great tits. They're just the most beautiful ones I think I've ever seen." He paused to yank down her satin thong. "And you wear fantastic lingerie."

He kept her folded over the table, her legs on the ground, her top half bent over and pressed onto the surface. One hand rubbed her spine, simultaneously keeping her down. His other hand reached around her waist for leverage. After a moment, she felt his hardness press up against her opening. There were no niceties, no soft kisses or romance. No, he simply gripped her body tight and thrust upward. She was wet, thinking about him throughout the morning, and he slid in easily.

He moved quickly, and thrust deeply. She could feel his desperation as his fingers desperately gripped at her hips and breasts. She couldn't see him, but she knew he had completely lost control. He could not form words, and only animalistic grunts spilt from his mouth. She could do little more, and, pinned against the desk by his cock, she could do nothing but take him.

Not that she wanted anything else. All day she had thought of their previous encounter, and it took only a few of his rough, deep thrusts before she came with an unrestrained, shrill cry.

He held each side of her as she flailed, and she felt him shudder as her muscles squeezed his still-deep cock. After she stilled, he began to move again, this time faster; it was only a minute or two before he grabbed her hips tightly, buried himself deep, and tensed. She felt the warmth spilt inside of her, and, as he slipped out, felt it run down her left leg.

It was dirty. It was carnal. It was completely, utterly sexual. But she didn't care. All of their clothing lay on the ground in a tangled heap. He had dripped his seed onto his white shirt.

As she tried to stand up, she groaned. Being pinned in such an awkward position had left her muscles tense and aching. Malfoy smirked and grabbed her arm to steady her.

"You got my shirt off this time," he said, his breathing still ragged.

"Mmm, so I did." She wriggled around a bit to loosen her muscles, still holding onto his firm arm. "You're fit."

He preened at the compliment. She let go, finally, to begin looking around the room. His eyes followed her as she searched for her knickers.

"Where were you off to when I ran into you, Granger? Have you missed some awfully important managerial meeting?"

She blushed. "I was actually going down to your office. Ostensibly, to ream out Perce for slacking off on the unicorn regulation."

"Ostensibly." He smirked. "No wonder your assistant called up Percy and warned him you were coming. He was about to run the regulation upstairs, but I volunteered to do it and make the necessary apologies."

She raised an eyebrow and paused while sliding into her dress. "And Percy agreed that you were the best person to placate me?"

"I made a bet with him. If you call him up and complain, I owe him twenty galleons. If you're happy with my report, he owes me twenty galleons." He raised an eyebrow. "I suspected I might know a few ways to keep you... pleased."

She knew she should probably make some disapproving noises, but she couldn't help it, knowing how pompous Percy could be. A giggle escaped her mouth, and she handed him back the report.

She nodded, her face still flushed. "Well, you definitely deserve a glowing performance review."

His eyes raked over her body lasciviously. "I endeavour not to disappoint."

At that, he began to cast cleansing spells and to dress. He buttoned his collar, tucked in his trousers, and buckled his belt in amiable silence. Finally, he picked up the draft regulation. His expression turned serious. "If you don't mind that it's me working on this regulation thing, I can have it to the Minister's office by the end of the week."

"Really?"

"I'm not a Slytherin for nothing." His lips curled into a smirk as he walked to the door. "I'll see you later."

And with that, he stalked out. Hermione stood, staring at the melamine tabletop for a moment, allowing the flush to leave her face and the scent of sex to dissipate. She purposely left a few minutes so there would be no suspicions; no sight of two flush-faced ministry employees scurrying out a boardroom.

When she returned to her office, she felt in a daze. A warm, marshmallow-muscled, intensely satiated daze.

"Did you see Mr. Malfoy?" Imelda asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"Hmm? Erm, yes, briefly." Hermione hoped her expression didn't betray her guilty conscience.

"Percy Weasley called. He would like an update." Imelda frowned. "Malfoy was supposed to bring you a draft regulation, but you're not even carrying it. I'll tell Mr. Weasley that he didn't bother..."

Hermione arched her brow and shot Imelda an icy glare. "Mr. Malfoy has everything under control. I was surprisingly pleased with his... attention to detail."

Imelda's jaw dropped. "So... you didn't have a row with him? Mr. Weasley said..."

"You can tell Percy that I'm very satisfied with Mr. Malfoy's performance." Hermione smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Imelda."

With that, she locked herself in her office. Half an hour later, she received an owl at her window. She didn't recognize the spidery writing until she cracked open the note.

 

_So glad you're "surprisingly pleased with my attention to detail" and "very satisfied with my performance." Percy has given me twenty galleons and the afternoon off. I'm spending it on liquor. If you want your rightful share, you can find me in the snug at the Black Kneazle._

_Yours,_

_DLM_

 

She smiled briefly at the "yours" - as if in any way she belonged to him. The letter was set aside, and she told herself she had far too much work to do.

As the minutes ticked by, her resolve waned. She could not concentrate on editing briefing notes and regulations. Though she and Malfoy had been together only minutes before, she still wanted him. He had stoked some unquenchable thirst in her; a passion she had only thought existed in novels or films.

She would join him. How many nights had she spent here, working late into the evening? How many mornings had she arrived well before dawn? How many weekends had she worked straight through?

No, there was no reason to feel guilty about nipping out early. Though, she supposed, the guilt really arose from the fact that she was nipping out to shag Draco Malfoy. Except that she didn't feel guilty. Naughty, yes; excited, yes; but not guilty.

She idly wondered where her self-control, her logic, had gone. Though she knew this was a horrible idea, and the repercussions could be devastating, she dismissed the niggling concerns in the back of her mind.

After signing off on one last letter, she stood, grabbed her purse, and walked out.

"Imelda, I'm leaving early today."

Imelda stared at Hermione as if she had three heads. The rest of her staff also gawked openly. As she walked down the corridor, she heard them muttering about a flu that had been going around.

She sighed with relief. At least she wouldn't have to lie about why she was going.


	3. The Black Kneazle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco drink, which we know can only lead to one thing... more shagging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take note that there's a bit of dominance in this chapter (pretty mild). I also wanted to apologize because originally, I tagged this story as Draco/Ginny and that was in error - it's now been fixed.

The Black Kneazle was a pub located directly on Knockturn Alley; Hermione had never been inside, and felt a thread of nervousness as she entered. Even at twelve thirty on a Monday, it was dark and full of shifty looking characters. Hermione had the good sense to wear a hooded cloak, knowing that the pub had a significant dark wizarding customer base. Nobody recognized her; nobody gave her a second look.

There were a couple of snugs in the back, the sort that old British pubs tended to have - perfect for plotting or trysting. The snugs had black curtains hanging over the doorways, hiding the patrons within. However, she knew which one to slip into. Malfoy had left a calling card - his father's snake-headed cane lying next to the door. Since Lucius was firmly ensconced in Azkaban, she figured it could only be Draco inside.

She slipped through the door and found him inside with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He too had worn a hooded cloak, and had kept it up over his cornsilk hair. She slid into the bench across from him. He shot a locking spell on the door.

"Keep your hood up, in case someone peeps in," he murmured. "I'm surprised you came, Granger. No pun intended."

"So am I, on some level."

"What do you want to drink? It's on me." She caught the smirk under his hood. "Percy was so irritated when he handed over the galleons. It was beautiful, even you might've enjoyed it."

"I'm sure I would've enjoyed it. Perce can be a prat." She examined the label on the whiskey. "This'll do, I suppose. I'm really not a liquor drinker, but this place doesn't seem appropriate for wine."

He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "No. That bottle's better quality than the stuff in Percy's desk, though."

He topped up the empty glass and slid it across to her. Both of them sipped in comfortable silence for a moment.

"This is bizarre," she blurted out.

At his silence, she flushed. She was suddenly thankful for the protection of her hood.

"You have to agree, don't you, Malfoy?" She frowned at him. "Or perhaps you make one night stands with muggleborns a habit?"

He sniffed disdainfully. "Obviously not."

"You didn't try to seduce me to get some kind of influence..." she began.

"Oh, please, Granger. You were quite the willing participant."

"I know that, Malfoy! I just..." She sighed.

"I don't have one night stands, Granger." His voice changed, sounding genuinely curious. "Do you?"

"No! I... I never really thought of myself as that sort of girl. A girl who can just shag someone once and leave."

He snorted. "And I suppose you're not, since you came back for seconds only three days later. And I hope you're here for thirds."

"See, that's what I don't understand, Malfoy. You hate my kind. You hate us. You've always hated me. And yet, this..." She swallowed. "You can't tell me that this is normal, Malfoy. We're practically flammable together."

He was silent for a moment, then sighed. "I can't say I've had some great change of heart, Granger. I haven't. I still dislike mudbloods."

She tensed, and he reached out and touched her wrist with two slender fingers. Even that tiny touch, his warm fingers on her pulse point, set a delicious shiver through her body. Her anger at his words warred with her lust toward him.

"I'm being honest with you, Granger," he murmured, "pleasant or not. But dispite my dislike of your kind, you're right. I thought you would be an amusing diversion for the night, and I found you physically attractive. I didn't expect you to be so..." He seemed to be searching for the right word. "Flammable."

She sensed that he felt as conflicted as she, and she felt a flicker of sympathy for him. "Perhaps we'll burn ourselves out."

He shrugged. "Perhaps. But until then... I don't see any reason why we should deny ourselves."

She was certain that this was a bad idea. He hated mudbloods. Their coupling was wholly sexual, based only on overwhelming chemistry and nothing else. They had always found one another intolerable; the ultimate result would surely leave one or both of them hurt. Their friends and families would he horrified. Their jobs might even be at stake.

"We won't tell anyone."

"Of course not. Both of us have too much at risk." He knocked back his glass of whiskey. "Can we stop talking about this? Come on, Granger... start drinking. You worry too much. You never just do things for the hell of it."

He was right, and she nodded mutely. As the two of them sipped at the whiskey, they launched into competing stories about their co-workers' stupidity. And her earlier niggling fears melted away, leaving only a pleasant buzz from alcohol and from Malfoy's conversation.

Suddenly, when the bottle was three-quarters gone, he leaned across the table and kissed her. She let out a startled squeak as his tongue prodded at her closed lips. After a second, she parted them, and he probed inside, sliding inside. His arm reached out, groping at her breast.

It was awkward; there was, after all, a table between them. They were in a pub. She pulled back. He looked hurt.

"Malfoy, do you intend to shag me in the snug at a Knockturn Alley pub?"

"It seemed better than not shagging you," he mumbled. "There's a curtain."

"I'm not shagging you here." She pursed her lips. "Anyone could look in! And everyone will definitely hear."

He frowned. She recognized it as disappointment, but thankfully, he didn't beg or whine pathetically like Ron tended to. He just nodded sharply and sat back.

"I didn't say I wouldn't shag you at all, Malfoy." Her voice had a mischievous lilt, and his eyes lifted up hopefully. "Just not here."

It took him a moment to recover.

"Where?" he asked urgently.

She swallowed, and wondered if he would be upset at her next suggestion. "My flat's around the corner."

He was silent. When he looked up, she feared she would see distaste reflected in his eyes - it was a muggle flat, after all - but instead, she saw a dark lust, mixed with curiosity. Her breaths quickened as their eyes met. His fingers wrapped around her knuckles, and he tugged gently on her hand, prompting her to move.

His voice was ragged when he finally spoke. "Now."

He needed to say nothing more. They drained their glasses, stood, and hurried out of the pub together.

Once in the flat, he slammed the door shut and locked it. She had expected him to immediately start stripping her, but he did not. He stepped inside tentatively, his silver eyes scanning the sitting room-cum-kitchen. It was a very mugglish flat, all things considered. She wondered what he thought of the espresso machine on the counter, or the toaster oven, or the flatscreen television hanging on the wall, all charmed to work with magic. But he made no comment, just looked at each object with abject curiosity. His eyes fell onto the hooks on the kitchen wall, where two mugs hung. They moved onto the chalkboard, where Hermione had written - good luck on your interview!

"You live with someone." His voice was flat. "Weasley?"

"Yes." At his stormy expression, she clarified. "Ginny. Ron moved out after... well, you know."

He seemed to relax at that, and muttered, "So the Weaselette could walk in at any moment."

"No, she's rarely here. She only keeps this room for show. She spends most nights with Harry, but her parents would never tolerate their only daughter living in sin, so she pays me for the second bedroom."

Hermione kicked off her shoes and wandered in. "My room's to the right. That one there with the sparkly pink G is obviously Gin's, and that third door's the toilet, if you need to freshen up."

He walked into the lav, and she went to the cupboard.

"You want another drink?" she called, trying to be heard over the running water.

She got no answer, so she poured the red wine into two glasses and set both of them down on the coffee table. A moment later, Malfoy reappeared. He nodded briefly in thanks, and settled into the sofa next to her. He lifted the glass to his lips, and drank deeply. The silence felt like a taut elastic band, a moment of loaded, awkward politeness as each sipped their wine.

She reached over to touch his thigh. And then, that feigned civility was gone. The wine was carelessly set aside. His hands skimmed over her body. He slipped one hand between her legs, pulling aside her knickers and touching between her lips with one finger.

"You're wet again, Granger." He laughed gutterally. "I've never met a witch so constantly ready to go. You're wasting this, working in some dusty office."

She frowned. "Nobody else has had this effect on me, much as I hate to admit it."

He grinned, evidently preening at that fact. But, thinking back to their earlier coupling, thinking back him pounding into her on the boardroom table, she felt desperation arc through her. She involuntarily licked her lips. His nostrils flared. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him to lie back on the sofa. Her hands scrabbled at his buttons, while his slid her satiny top down over her shoulders to reveal her balconet.

"Again, where do you find this lingerie?" He smoothed his hands over the top of her breasts, nearly spilling from their satin prison. "Keep this on. I like it."

She straddled his waist and held down his wrists, but he twisted his hands around and caught her wrists in his. He sat up suddenly so she sat on him, face to face, then before she had the chance to react, pushed her back onto the sofa. His hands pinned her wrists, placing her in the same position she'd held him a moment earlier.

She looked up at him. He smirked.

"I like being in control."

"Hmm, I'd never have guessed," she replied.

"Don't pretend you don't enjoy it," he muttered.

He collapsed his weight onto her, so his chest crushed hers. With his free hands, he hiked her skirt up to her waist and yanked her knickers to her knees. He didn't bother taking off his trousers, just released his straining hardness by unbuttoning his trousers. She felt it press against her lips and fully expected him to sink in. But instead, he taunted her, pressing inside just a fraction of an inch, then pulling out. Her hands dug into his arse and tried to force him in.

"Ah, I don't think so, Granger."

He grabbed her wrists and pinned them up above her head. It didn't hurt, and it wasn't uncomfortable, but she swore at his presumption. She twisted her arms, trying to free them, and he smirked.

"I'll let you out when you behave," he whispered. "You love it, Granger. You love not being able to do anything except let me fuck you, admit it."

His crude language sent a shot of wetness through her core, and she sighed in pleasure. His cock still teased her, sitting right at her entrance, and no matter how she writhed or tried to impale herself, he would not let her. She felt as if she were burning up. The rough fabric of his trousers scraped against the exposed skin on her thighs; the smell of his sweat and cologne overwhelmed her.

"Please," she whispered.

"Please what?" He stared down at her, smirking openly at her desperation.

"Please... please, Malfoy, fuck me."

He rewarded her by sharply embedding himself to the hilt. She sucked in her breath and let out a cry at the exquisitely painful pleasure.

"I love it," he hissed in her ear.

He dragged himself out slowly, raggedly. When she began to whimper at the feeling of need, he sharply thrust again. His movements were agonizingly slow, and she knew he was trying to torture her with slow-burning desire. She began to writhe under him, trying without success to move faster against him. Her words devolved into low moans. Eventually, she gave up the struggle against his restraining hands, gave up trying to make him move faster, and just let him slide slowly into her, use her, as he pleased.

On some level, she wondered if this was wrong; the pure, unrestrained pleasure she felt at being utterly at the mercy of his sexual wants.

And, once he saw her give up any resistance, it seemed to send him over the edge. His thrusts became hard and ragged. His breathing became shallow. His thrusts sped up, and his hands pinned her wrists atop the magical restraint.

"God, you're the perfect fuck. Take my cock, take it." It was almost a chant.

He leaned back, and hit a new, pleasurable spot deep within her. His quick, deep pistoning, combined with his words, sent her over the edge. She came with a long, high pitched cry. Her hands twisted against his. Her muscles clamped hard onto his cock.

And, simultaneously, it sent him over as well. He grabbed the sofa's armrest and used it as leverage to thrust one last, hard time. She felt him swell, and freeze deep within her. And then, she felt filled with his warm seed. He collapsed, all sticky limbs, atop her. He left his cock buried deep within her even as he softened.

Neither made a move for a long minute. Malfoy was the first, but only to touch her wrists gently.

"Sorry," he muttered, "I shouldn't have held you down without asking. I... was caught up in the moment."

"Don't apologize," she replied. "I liked it."

He stared down at her incredulously. Slowly, with one finger, he brushed a stray curl from her face. Without saying anything more, he collapsed atop her, and they both fell asleep.

When she awoke two hours later, a blanket had been tucked around her. The apartment had grown dark. And Malfoy was gone.


	4. Hermione's Apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco visits Hermione's apartment. That's not the only new thing he tries... as requested by one of my readers on ff.net, this is an explicit chapter about BJ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo whoever gave me 100 kudos is frigging amazing. THANKS A BUNCH... I promise I'll keep posting fast as a measure of my gratitude!

The next day, she'd been sent on an emergency meeting to Wales, leaving her only time to leave a hastily-written _Had to go, sorry - see you Friday?_ deposited on Malfoy's desk.

And she'd felt sick with worry that he _wouldn't_ , that the note was full of too much expectation, of something that was borderline a _relationship_ , for something that was essentially just fucking.

But come Friday morning, she found an owl at her window, bearing a delicately wax-sealed note. _I'll be leaving work at 5:30 p.m. Perhaps you'll be leaving at that time as well?_

So, it wasn't terribly surprising when they _coincidentally_ left work at the same time and _coincidentally_ ended up on Hermione's street, Malfoy following a few metres behind her, pretending as if they weren't together.

Once he arrived, he didn't waste time looking around.

No, as soon as the front door shut, he was on her, pushing her against the nearest wall, slipping his hands up her angora jumper. His hips pinned her against the wall, and she felt his length butting against her stomach. His mouth delved onto hers, his tongue snaking between her lips.

She broke away from his mouth and began to slowly unbutton his dress shirt, then dropped to her knees.

"What..." he muttered, his face twisting into confusion momentarily, then letting out a soft, "oh."

His fleeting moment of confusion had betrayed him.

"Malfoy," she looked up at him, hands frozen at his belt buckle, "you haven't done this before?"

He shrugged, and she recognized it as fake nonchalance. "It's not something that Pureblood girls generally do."

A vague feeling of wrongness overcame her; not that it was wrong to blow him, no. Just not here, on the dirty lino tiles in her disheveled sitting room.

Hermione stood, and he looked vaguely alarmed.

"No, no, I want to, Granger..."

She grinned cheekily. "Is that so? Well, I don't want to disappoint you."

He lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. She reached for his hand and gently tugged him toward her bedroom, shutting and locking the door firmly behind them.

"Seriously, Granger? Quidditch themed curtains?"

She had not been expecting _that_ as his first comment.

"I haven't changed them since... well, the breakup."

He rolled his eyes and shot a spell toward them. The bright orange Chudley Cannons logo muted and faded; and in their place was left a rather nondescript set of white gauze sheers.

"There. I'm not keen on being shagged in what looks like a twelve year old boy's room," he muttered.

He suddenly turned to her, grabbed her around the waist and pressed his mouth hard against hers. His tongue delved into her mouth, as if savouring a particularly delicious mouthful of sweet.

"Come on, Granger, enough talking, let's start fucking..." he hissed urgently.

But she hadn't forgotten her intention. And, though she didn't particularly _like_ Malfoy, she didn't want to _use_ him, either. If she was going to be the first to go down on him, she wanted him to think back on it fondly.

And what man forgot his first?

She pushed him up against her desk, and he half-stood, half-sat on the massive wooden tabletop. Whereas before, he'd been in control, dominating, she could sense his uncertainty here. He didn't know what to do. His pewter eyes stared at her with barely-concealed awkwardness, watched as she carefully unzipped him and tugged his trousers and undergarments down. His cock sprang free.

Her hand massaged him, slipped over the silky skin, traced up the insides of his thighs. He still stared down at her with a vaguely frightened expression, and she smiled up at him in what she hoped was a reassuring manner.

It seemed to work, as his lips curled into a smirk and he dipped his hands into her sweater to grab at her tits.

She leaned down and he froze, all tensed muscles and held breath. When she fisted him, and gave a tiny, experimental lick, he let out a gasp. She laughed softly. His head was purplish-red and drum-tight. His cock was bone-hard, and just a fraction too long to fit all the way into her mouth. But he didn't seem to complain. As she began to slide her mouth up and down, began to massage the soft skin with her tongue, his eyelids fluttered shut and his mouth went slack. She noticed with some pride that his knuckled gripped her desk so tightly that they had turned white.

Her hand palmed his sac, and only a few moments later, she felt it tense up. One of his hands released her desk and laced through her hair, pushing her head gently backward and forward onto his cock.

He didn't last long. His pained shout echoed through the room as he released into her mouth. His limbs and stomach clenched, and his whole body flushed red. She continued to swirl him around on her tongue as the salty, viscous warmth hit the back of her throat.

His eyes opened in surprise when she swallowed, and he watched her with an intense - dare she say almost _affectionate_ \- gaze as she licked the head clean and swallowed. He staggered forward and flopped down onto the bed. She crawled up to lay down on the other side of the bed.

They were silent a moment. The taste of him still clung to her mouth. It wasn't delicious, but neither was it unpleasant; his taste reminded her of ocean air on a warm day.

"Mmm, Granger?" When he spoke, his voice sounded sleepy and sated.

"Yeah, Malfoy?"

"That was fucking incredible."

She laughed softly. They just lay there for a moment on the bed; she listened as his breathing steadied. He rolled over and propped himself up on one arm. His expression had turned vaguely embarrassed.

"Granger, I know I should get you..." He paused awkwardly. "But I... that is... I'm not..."

"It's all right. Really." She paused. "I don't want you doing anything you're not comfortable with."

He sighed, and went silent. She felt his eyes on her as she stood and examined herself in the mirror. Locks of hair had escaped from her chignon and hung limply around her face; several buttons had popped free on her jumper; her lipstick had all been smudged off, leaving her only with badger-eyed mascara. She frowned at herself in the mirror. Malfoy's eyes were still on her, and she turned back, expecting a snarky comment about how godawful she looked.

"What?" she asked.

"You look..."

His voice died away, and he kept looking her with that strangely calm, deep gaze. Suddenly, he broke away his gaze and flushed, staring instead at the door.

"I should probably go. I'm expected at the Manor on weekends... it's Friday..." He stood and began hastily hiking up his pants. "Err, right then. I'll see you Monday."

"Are you all right, Malfoy?"

"Hmm? Why wouldn't I be all right?" He buckled up his belt, hurried out of the room, and grabbed his coat.

She followed him out, watching as he tried to stuff his feet into his shoes, but he seemed to have difficulty with the left. After a moment, he growled with frustration, yanked the errant shoe on violently, and opened her front door.

"Right. Well. Have a good evening," he said, again refusing to look at her.

"You too, Malfoy," she replied quietly.

With that, he slammed the door shut behind him. She could hear his hurried footsteps echoing down the hall.

"What was that all about?" she asked Crookshanks. "Curiouser and curiouser."


	5. Hermione's Office

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a slower start devolves into explicit office sex. Again, don't read if you don't like smut.

Ginny arrived home from Harry's late Friday evening, no more than an hour after Malfoy's awkward departure.

"You're home! Wow, I thought you'd be at work. Mmm, it smells nice in here - like spruce or something." Ginny frowned as she kicked off her shoes. "Are you off work because you're upset over Ron and his little slag?"

Hermione sighed with relief. Ginny wasn't suspicious that there had been someone else in the apartment.

"No. I just had some things to do and I thought I deserved to leave early for once." Hermione stared out the window to keep from meeting Ginny's gaze.

"Good. You do!" Ginny suddenly pointed to the coffee table. "Aha! Look at that!"

Hermione blanched. Sitting on the table were two wineglasses, hers stained with red lipstick, Malfoy's clean. The last dregs of ruby liquid still sat in the bottom of both glasses. Had she really forgotten to do dishes since Tuesday?

"You're always on at me about using up all the cups and never doing the washing up, Hermione! Now you can't complain - you've done it yourself." Ginny smirked. "What is it you always say? Use one cup, not the entire cupboard. And here you are, leaving your wineglasses out from last night _and_ today!"

Hermione nearly whimpered with relief. Ginny didn't seem to notice, and chattered on about her Quidditch practice. Hermione picked up the glasses and began scrubbing them clean.

* * *

Monday came with the usual dose of anxiety. What if Malfoy had changed his mind? What if he'd behaved so bizarrely because he had decided to end the whole sordid affair? What if blowing had crossed a bridge into too-intimate territory?

Hermione found that she could not concentrate on her work, despite the pile of speaking notes and memoranda she had to finish by the end of the day. Her mind had been firmly tangled around thoughts of Malfoy, leaving no room for sense or practicality.

She sat behind her desk, staring out the window onto the rainy street, blowing on her too-hot cappuccino and wondering whether she would ever really care about policy again. Her thoughts strayed to slim, cold fingers sliding over her stomach, down between her legs...

A soft knock on the door nearly shot Hermione out of her seat. Her cheeks blazed.

"Ah... erm... who is it?"

"It's me." There was a pause. "Malfoy. I'm, uh, here to talk about the regulation."

"Come in."

He stepped inside, carrying a sheaf of papers under one arm. His eyes swivelled around the room, taking it all in; the red shag-rug on the ground to cover up the ugly beige tile; the poster of Van Gogh's "Red Poppies and Daisies" pinned on the wall; the photo on the desk of her mother and father.

She realized that this was the first time he'd been in her office.

"We have one of those," Malfoy said idly, staring at her poster.

" _Who_ has one of _what_ , Malfoy?" she asked irritably, feeling unjustly annoyed toward him for being such a distraction from work.

"One of those paintings. By Van Gogh. Uncle Rodolphus brought one back from France when he was there in the sixties. Except the one we have is just poppies." He settled in the chair across from her. "Do you like that sort of thing? Art?"

"Well... yes... I suppose I do. I try to visit art museums when I get the time."

She was unsure how to react to _conversation_ with Malfoy. They hadn't actually talked much since they started their fling. He still stared at the cheap, shiny print on the wall, and Hermione was suddenly struck by just how different their backgrounds really were. She had internally debated whether to spend the three pounds on the print; he _owned_ a Van Gogh and thought nothing of it.

"Besides, Malfoy, who doesn't like art?" she asked acidly.

"I don't." He finally looked at her. "I mean, not that I _dislike_ it, I just don't have an eye for it. It looks pretty, I suppose, but paintings, sculpture, that sort of thing... the beauty never really resonates with me."

"Maybe you just have no eye for aesthetics, Malfoy," she replied.

"No, definitely not." He seemed to scrutinize her face for a moment. "Just... reality, not art."

They lapsed into an awkward moment of silence.

"You seem testy," he finally said.

"I haven't had my coffee yet." She yawned widely.

"Coffee? How un-British." He raised one eyebrow. "I only tried coffee once in my life, at Hogwarts. It tasted like foul dishwater. I've stuck with English Breakfast ever since."

"No wonder you hated it. The house elves couldn't make a decent coffee to save their lives. If there's one thing Muggles do better, it's making a decent cappuccino. Witches and wizards just boil the grinds to hell, and it ends up being this tarry, revolting muck." She slid her cup across the table. "Try it."

He looked skeptically at the paper cup.

"Scared of tasting a muggle drink?" she taunted.

"No, Granger, I'm scared of your germs."

"Oh, please. We've shared bodily fluids, Malfoy," she snapped.

"Exactly. I know where that mouth's been."

He smirked triumphantly at her hot blush. A moment later, he lifted the cup to his lips and drank deeply.

"Tea's better," he murmured. "Maybe you're in such a testy mood because you haven't gotten a good, hard shag for more than two days."

Hermione raised one eyebrow. "You're assuming rather a lot." After a beat, she added tartly. "Is that what you expect from me?"

Draco understood what she meant, and he immediately regretted his words. He _had_ expected monogamy from her. Her underlying suggestion that she was free to go out with other men, that she might've spent the weekend shagging some other wizard in his absence, sent a flicker of anger through him.

What he didn't understand was _why_. He had no claims over her, had no right to feel angry, when they were essentially enemies who were fucking semi-frequently to let off steam. And yet, yet - he could not shake that feeling of disgusted anger at the thought of her being bent over and taken by some unknown wizard. Could _not_ shake the little voice in the back of his mind _\- who? Potter? One of the Weasleys? Some other Auror, or bureaucrat?_

He wasn't going to risk putting it into words, though. That would mean a quick, frosty end to all of this - or worse, that this would immediately coalesce into something terrifyingly close to boyfriend and girlriend. So, though he knew it was cowardly, he changed the subject.

"I spent the entire weekend counting down the minutes until I got back to London."

She looked surprised, and he laughed.

"Come on, Granger. Which do you think I'd rather be doing on a Saturday evening? Shagging a girl until she's incoherent, or eating a twelve-course supper with my mother's bitchy old Wiltshire friends?" He rolled his eyes. "I can't wait to fuck you. Stand up. Bend over the desk."

She shot him a reproachful glance, but he looked perfectly serious. After a second, she stood up, crossed the room, and leaned over the back of the massive oak desk. She placed both hands flat on top to prop herself up. The pose looked erotic; dirty. Her arse was stuck out, her breasts almost fell out of her V-neck blouse. He stood and walked behind her. Though she couldn't see him, she could feel his eyes on her, assessing her. She felt a hand brushing against her pencil skirt, and then a whoosh of cold air as he pulled up the hem with one finger .

"Nice stockings. Did you wear those for me?" He paused. "I like it."

There was an agonizingly long moment of silence where she could neither see nor hear him. Then she heard the zip, and tensed, full of taut anticipation. She felt his hand on her spine in response, stroking gently, as if calming a skittish animal. His hand slid upward and knotted through her long ponytail; the other gripped her hip firmly in place, readying her for his intrusion.

"I have the most incredible view right now, Granger. Do you know what I see?" His voice was low and throaty. "I see the next Minister of Magic, the Ministry's darling, Britain's sweetheart, bent over her desk and practically begging for Malfoy cock. I'm going to fuck you while looking out the window, because right across the way is Shacklebolt's office."

"Are you trying to insult me, Malfoy?" she asked, though his hand through her hair prevented her from twisting back to look at him.

"On the contrary." His breaths were shorter now, more excited. "I wanted you to know how powerful you've made me. It's very... erotic from where I'm standing."

She responded only with a whimper as he pressed his length up against her, readying himself to enter. He tugged her hair and hip at the same time, pulling her back and fully onto him. She let out a gasp as he filled her.

Then he began to move. He rocked her back and forth, and her quills and biros and papers rolled about underneath her breasts. She felt as if her body were a ship in a storm; he moved her, he played her, at his will. That beautiful, almost-painful tension began to build.

"Did you?" she heard his ragged voice breathe over her.

He continued to move her back and forth with each stroke, a steady beat against her desk.

"What?" She could barely comprehend his question.

"Granger, did you have someone else? Over the weekend?" he groaned. "Tell me."

"Seriously? No..." she managed between her shallow breaths.

With that, he sped up. One hand slid down, between her legs, and began to play at the soft button there. His gentle fingertips massaged her clit, in stark contrast to the unrelentingly fast pace and deep force of his cock. She could hear him grunting over her.

It took only seconds for her to shatter, twisting and flailing beneath him, sending a shower of documents flying off the desk and onto the floor. Her keening cry echoed throughout the office. And a moment later, she felt his muscles tense, trembling against hers; felt his whole body flush with heat; and felt his fingers crush around her thigh and the back of her neck as he lost control. He made one last deep thrust, shouted out his completion, and shot himself within her.

He didn't pull out immediately. The last two times he had, but not now. She lay very still as he softened within her. His hand dragged down her spine, across her arse, in what - if their circumstances had been different - she would have called a caress. She heard him gasp as his cock finally slid out, too soft to remain cocooned by her body.

She suddenly felt quite empty.

They stayed still and silent for a long moment, her on the desk, him still limply pressed up against her, his hands dragging lazily over her exposed skin.

Finally, he stepped back. He said nothing this time, but reached down and slid her knickers back up and set them carefully in place before he began to hike up his own trousers.

"Are you too busy for seconds after work?" he asked quietly.

She sighed and stood up, glancing at the papers strewn about her office. "I don't know yet. I hope not."

He flipped out his wand and muttered a spell she didn't quite catch. The scattered papers floated up from the ground and rearranged themselves neatly on her desk.

"Thanks," she said, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt with her sweaty palms.

He smiled back at her, watching as she rearranged her off-centre brassiere.

"Last thing I need is wonky looking tits," she mumbled, feeling self-conscious.

He laughed and moved to the door.

"I'll stop by later. Wouldn't want to waste an opportunity." He shot her a languid smirk. "Work hard. I'll make sure you're suitably rewarded."


	6. Trapped in a Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has sex but it unwantedly mixes in with a lot of feels. He ends up stuck in a bedroom for his troubles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo also the massive kudos this piece of crap has gotten has made me feel AMAZING. Thanks guys, and if you don't think this is garbage, keep feeding my ego by clicking that KUDOS button!!! ;-)

He stalked into her office at four thirty, carrying his usual decoy - the large file marked _Unicorn Mating Grounds_. Imelda barely took any notice of him at all anymore. Even the other policy analysts only flickered their gaze upward for a moment.

Strange that they had no suspicions about an intern arriving time and again to Granger's office. He'd never realized how many people in the Ministry were so utterly dim. Didn't they have that natural curiosity, that urge to get material to blackmail their fellow employees?

He supposed not. That's why they were middling bureaucrats while the Malfoys consistently rose to the top.

"Come in, Malfoy," Granger called from her office.

He shut the door behind him, and she shook her head. "I'm swamped with work. I won't be out of here until seven at least. I'm sorry. I wish I could, but Arthur Weasley's on his way up here to discuss some emergency legislation."

"And you don't want to make a go of it after you get home?" he asked.

"Really?" She looked up, startled. "No. I just thought you wouldn't want to come over so late."

"Granger, I'm a twenty year old man offered the opportunity for a fantastic shag. And I live two blocks from you. I think I can make the time to walk over there whether it's five or eight o'clock." He rolled his eyes. "But will the future Mrs. Potter be there?"

She shook her head. "Not til after ten at least. Quidditch practice."

"Good. Eight thirty. Don't be late." He paused. "And wear that pink lingerie with the black bows on it. I like that one."

* * *

 

Malfoy peeled off his coat and hung it in the closet. He kicked his black dress shoes into the corner, then proceeded to the kitchen for a drink. Hermione's brain froze for a moment at the uncomfortable familiarity of it; Malfoy had now been here enough to establish a routine. He knew where she kept her cups. He knew where to put his coat.

"Wine?" he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"I suppose."

"You don't seem particularly enthusiastic, Granger." He poured two generous glasses and settled into the sofa. "Crap day?"

"Hmm. As usual. My job's got a lovely title - managerial and everything - but no power to accomplish anything whatsoever."

She sat down on the opposite end of the sofa and began to swirl her wine around in the glass, feeling a wave of self-pity wash over her. Malfoy sighed impatiently.

"Oh, come on, Granger, you know why I'm here. Don't sit two metres away like we're a pair of strangers in the St. Mungo's waiting room."

He leaned down, grabbed her ankles, and pulled her legs up so she was now lying on the sofa, her lower legs stretched across his lap.

"Malfoy," she chided, "don't be so rough, I could've spilt my wine!"

"And I could've cleaned it with a simple spell." He rolled his eyes and began to run his fingers lightly over her exposed shins. "So, tell me, Granger, why do you stay in a job you loathe?"

She let out a pleasured whimper as he moved his fingers to that sensitive bit of skin on the underside of her knee. "What's the alternative, Malfoy? Cashier at Honeyduke's? Go back to the Muggle world? At least I get to occasionally use my brains in my job. It pays well. And it's respectable."

"Respectable is overrated. You could just stay at home and practice that incredible shagging talent of yours by being a rich man's mistress."

She snorted. "Yes, that seems like the sensible alternative. Whoring."

"Better paid. More fun. Less work. And definitely more power." His hand snaked up her skirt and began to brush the insides of her thighs.

She tried to ignore how distracting his hands were - at least, enough to form a proper sentence. "I think you may be overstating the benefits."

"I don't think so. Let's face it, Granger, rich men run the Ministry. It's not a meritocracy, it's an old boys' club. That's why people like you, like your friends, all smart and talented and all that, but languishing in middling jobs, while idiots like Goyle are being groomed for the council."

His hand had stopped moving, resting motionlessly on her thigh, and he had an oddly thoughtful expression. She smiled at him, thinking perhaps the turn in conversation had made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he thought that she was taking him seriously; perhaps he thought she'd be upset at the unfairness of the Ministry.

She wasn't. She knew, as always, he was full of teasing shite.

"Well, Malfoy, I suppose I'll have to work to change that, then," she said lightly. "Though if it doesn't work, keep your ears open for rich men openly hiring, just so I can have a backup plan."

Her joke didn't seem to faze him. He still kept eyeing her with that look of consternation - frowning, brow furrowed, deep gaze. After a moment, he seemed to snap out of it. His cheeks coloured, and he gently pushed her legs off his lap.

"I wouldn't want to..." His voice died away, and he seemed to reconsider his words. "I'm going to the lavatory to freshen up. I'll join you in the bedroom in a minute."

* * *

 

_What the fuck are you doing?_

Draco stared his reflection down in the mirror, wishing it could answer. His face was still bright red, despite splashing cold water on his cheeks three times. He was internally embarrassed by his thoughtless conversation and his near-catastrophic verbal misstep.

Granger had thought it all a lark, thank God. The conversation about being a mistress, that is. But some tiny part of his brain had actually been plotting it - considering whether it was practically feasible. Pureblood men often kept mistresses; his father never had one, nor his grandfather, and so the thought had never really occurred to Draco before. But now, the thought had flown into his mind, unbidden - _I could keep her._

He suspected Granger would never go for it. She seemed like a rather middle class sort.

Worse, she'd made a joke about finding some other man to take her up as a mistress, and he'd very nearly blurted out his first thought - _I wouldn't want to share, anyhow._

He was becoming _attached_. The thought terrified him; that loss of control; the potential for self-destruction. And, more terrifying still was how quickly he found himself drawn to Granger. Years of dating Pansy, and he'd only been blandly irritated when he discovered her infidelity. Months of nuptial negotiations with Astoria hadn't left him crushed when she broke it off; his ego had been bruised, at most.

He'd never wanted to see Pansy or Astoria daily. In fact, he found them grating on his bi-weekly visits. The jealousy, the urge to possess - that was strange and new as well.

And dangerous.

_Step back, Malfoy. She's just a mudblood. Control yourself._

* * *

 

Hermione stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She stood in only her knickers and bra, her clothing pooled at her feet. Sunset light streamed through her window, painting her exposed skin pink. Her breasts lifted and fell in time with her breathing.

She felt no shame, looking at herself in the mirror. She didn't feel inadequate. With sudden clarity, she realized that this was a sea change. With Ron, she had always felt that little bit embarrassed by her wide hips and pale skin. Ron liked to buy wizard's magazines, and liked to comment on the relative "fit-ness" of the Page Six girls in the Prophet. He and his teammates would openly discuss the arse, or hips, or face of the various Quidditch groupies that hung around the pitch, as if grading pieces of meat in the grocer's.

At the time, she'd sloughed it off as harmless, but in retrospect, she could see that it had seeded her mind with doubt. It had been chauvinistic and immature.

She could recognize the irony - that the boy who'd made her hate herself most as a child was the man who'd made her feel most lovely.

"Hmm... not the little black bows, but nice knickers anyhow, Granger."

She jumped at his voice from the doorway.

"What does it matter what I'm wearing?" she muttered, face flushing at the fact he'd caught her examining herself.

"You don't put a diamond into a tin setting, Granger." His voice was barely audible. "Now, come here, and let's fuck."

Robotically, she walked closer to him. As soon as she was within arm's reach, he grabbed her upper arms. He pushed her back, back, until she fell backward onto her bed. She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. Her mouth snapped shut.

His hands yanked down her knickers. His arms still held her down hard against the mattress. His hand tore at her knickers; the silky fabric snapped at her waist.

"Malfoy! They're from La Perla..."

"Shut up, Granger. Honestly, shut up."

He dropped his face to her neck, and bit her neck. He heard her yelp, and writhe under him. She's just a mudblood, his mind repeated. And yet... yet... he pulled his head up to look into her eyes for reassurance. He didn't want to see fear, and he didn't. Her lips were quirked into a puzzled smile, even as her eyelids were heavy with want.

He thrust. Hard, still hoping that sheer animalistic force might drive out his new, frightening affection.

It did not.

She stared back at him with a sweet smile. Her arms clutched around his back, fingernails dragging over his spine, lips pressing kisses against his throat. As he thrust deeply into her, her thighs curled around him. Her feet pressed against his arse, pushing him in harder. Rhythmic, throaty moans urged him on. _Please, harder, you're so incredible. You make me feel so good. Please, fuck me. Fuck me._

He thrust harder. Her eyes were locked on his. He couldn't tear his gaze away. As much as he wanted to just fuck, there was the most beautiful, soft, trusting expression reflected in those dark eyes.

And though he promised himself he'd keep his feelings out of it, his arms clasped tight against her back and shoulders. His chest pressed hard against hers, feeling both soft breasts pressed tightly against him. Her soft, rhythmic chant repeated in his ears, propelling him to completion - _this is so perfect; you're the greatest fuck; please fuck me; harder, deeper; fill me with you._ Then, she froze. Her insides clenched hard against his cock. A high-pitched cry filled his ears, like a plaintive prayer. _"Draco!"_

He came. Hard, deep within her. He wanted only to fill his woman - Granger- with his seed. To claim her and mark her and make her as close to him as was humanly possible between two people. And as his nails dug into her shoulders, his face pressed into her shoulder and he convulsed in pleasure, it felt more like a prayer than the animalistic joinings before.

It seemed to go on forever - wave after wave of his seed deep within her.

When he finally finished, he couldn't let go. He didn't want to feel that emptiness, not quite yet. Hermione's arms clutched around him, gently stroking his back. He felt as if he was wrapped in a safe, warm, cocoon.

* * *

 

Afterward, Draco fell asleep on Hermione's bed after they finished. She wasn't certain how to react. It felt strange and awkward, seeing his blonde hair splayed out over her pillow, his black robes crumpled over her floor, and his face unguarded and angelic.

He would fume about it when he awoke, she was certain.

But she didn't want to awaken him, so she rolled over, shut off the light, and fell asleep beside him.

Several hours later - and the room now dark - she awoke to the distinctive sound of the front door squealing open. Malfoy's breathing, rhythmic and steady, suddenly spluttered to life.

"Where the fuck..." he began.

"Shh!" Hermione hissed, "you fell asleep after you came. Ginny and Harry are both here."

"Hermione?" Ginny called out, "What was that sound?"

"Nothing, Gin. I just fell asleep watching a video on the internet," she called back, schooling her voice into exaggerated exhaustion. "Good-night."

"'Night."

She heard Ginny padding around the kitchen, then into the lav. The shower turned on, and Malfoy used the noise as an opportunity to speak.

"What time is it?"

She gestured to the digital clock. "Ten thirty."

"Shit." She could see his grimace in the moonlight. "I've been here hours."

"What, is someone expecting you?" she asked, dreading that he had some girlfriend to rejoin - not that they'd ever discussed it.

"Don't be stupid, you know I live alone. But I'd rather not have Weaselette or Pothead catch me in your bed." He glanced around the room. "She could just walk in here."

"She won't." Hermione sighed. "Just... sleep here. You can't leave now. When Harry's here, they post an Auror outside for his protection and put protective wards and spells everywhere. And Ginny wakes up at the slightest noise."

He looked guardedly at her. "If I stay here, it's... ah... not going to change anything..."

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously not, Malfoy. It's out of necessity. I'd kick your arse out, if Gin wasn't here to see or hear it."

"Right. Good." There was a long, awkward moment where he just stared at her, as if deciding what to do. "Good night, Granger."

The water turned off in the lavatory. Ginny began to hum off-key.

"Good-night, Malfoy," she whispered, lay down, and turned away from him.

Malfoy, on the other hand, lay awake for some time, wondering internally if it would be easier just to make a run for it and deal with the repercussions of being caught. _So much for controlling myself._


	7. Mornings After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small amount of plot interrupts the parade of filth. Malfoy panics. Harry grows suspicious. Hermione is blithely oblivious to both. 
> 
> (Don't worry, though, there's more smut on the way.)

Draco had often thought that confidence was what separated Malfoys from the rest of the world; that unshakeable certainty that all Malfoys had in their own superiority.

He could count on one hand the number of times he had felt uncertain. Now, he could add one more to that list - waking up in Granger's bed.

A mudblood bed.

With his fucking worst enemy separated only by a thin wall. Worse, Potter had been audibly amorous with his trashy Weasley girlfriend at about three in the morning.

And worse of all, he had a woman lying next to him. One he had no fucking clue how to react to. She was supposed to be his enemy. She was supposed to be inferior, something only marginally better than an animal. That was what he'd always been taught. And he believed it. Or rather, he had believed it. Now...

Now, what? Now he watched her; the fringe of dark eyelashes; the small smile playing on her lips; the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He was not so in denial that he could not acknowledge what he felt when he looked at her. The affection ballooning in his chest was unfamiliar and distasteful to his rational brain.

He did not want to grow attached. He should have been in control of his feelings.

She whimpered; her breathing grew shorter, and he saw her begin to awaken.

He quickly shut his eyes, relaxed against his pillow, and feigned deep, slow breaths. It was a panicked response, uncertain about how this strange morning after might turn out, a ploy for a few more seconds to try and think things through.

It worked. She slid carefully out of bed, so she wouldn't "wake" him. He heard the door click softly open, then shut again. Through the door, he could hear her voice - it seemed she was speaking to Potter. With a sigh of relief, he opened his eyes. He rolled over.

_What the fuck am I going to do next? I've got to get out of here._

And then, a more honest thought - _you're such a fucking coward, Draco Malfoy._

* * *

 

Hermione tiptoed out of her room and tried to slip out silently. Draco was obviously still sleeping, and she had no desire to wake him; he'd eventually come to. Though she knew he might be angry, or skittish, even that could not dampen her mood. She felt utterly relaxed. A smile felt permanently affixed to her face.

"You're in a good mood."

She jumped at the deep male voice. In her distraction, she hadn't even noticed Harry standing in the kitchen. He was lounging against the kitchen island, a massive cup of coffee in one hand.

Her eyes darted back to her closed bedroom door. Silently, she prayed that Malfoy would stay put.

"What are you doing up this early? I don't think I've seen you up before seven since we left school," she commented, trying to keep her voice light.

"That's because you're always at work before six, Hermione. You've only ever seen me on the weekends, when I don't have to get to work." Harry smirked. "I'm an Auror. My shifts start at eight. But what about you? Why is Workaholic Granger sleeping in until such an ungodly hour... seven thirty... on a Tuesday morning?"

"Oh, be quiet," she chided softly. "Any coffee left in the pot?"

He grabbed an empty mug, splashed in some milk, and topped it up. "Why are you being so quiet?"

Hermione felt her face flush, and she stumbled for an answer. "Ah, err... I don't want to wake Gin."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about her, she had to get up early today for a practice."

Hermione just smiled. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as she enjoyed her first languid sip of coffee. When she opened them again, Harry's green eyes were scrutinizing her closely. She grinned.

"What?"

"There's something different about you today." He frowned. "If you were one of my Auror mates, I'd say you had... well, never mind."

A blush suffused his cheeks, and he looked intensely uncomfortable for a moment. Normally, she could read Harry like a book. After all, they'd been friends for years. They'd _lived_ together in that damned forest, for goodness sakes. But she could not tell what had embarrassed him now.

"I thought you'd be upset," Harry murmured, "but you're not at all, are you?"

"About what?" Realization dawned, and she gave a bark of nervous laughter. "Oh. The breakup."

With a start, she realized that she had not thought of Ron in days. She no longer felt that ache of lost dreams and insecurities that had characterized their breakup. In fact, she felt better now than she had for most of her relationship with Ron.

"In retrospect, I think it's for the best." She shrugged. "Not that I wasn't hurt, but... now that I've been away from him a bit, I can see we weren't that well suited."

"I guess I better break it to Ron that you're not planning on going back with him." Harry sighed deeply. "He's been... hopeful."

"He's been in a fantasy land," Hermione bit back, her old frustration with him flaring up. "He's got a baby on the way. Maybe, for once in his life, he should start thinking like a grown-up. Why would I ever want to be with him when there are dozens of single wizards around who have their shit together - excuse my language, Harry."

Harry's eyebrows shot into his hairline. It took him a moment before he could speak.

"Wow. So it really is over between you two. Well, I hope whoever you're..." Harry seemed to rethink his wording, "...whoever you end up with, you end up happy."

"I'm sure I will." She grinned brightly at him.

"I've got to go." He paused. "I know we always used to meet up on Thursdays for lunch - Gin, Ron, you and me. But do you want to pop by my office tomorrow for a bite? Just you and I?"

"Sure."

"Great." Harry kissed her on the cheek. "See you then."

With that, he was out the door. His Auror guard - stationed at the door to fend against dark wizards - followed him. If only they knew. Hermione smirked inwardly.

Despite what had happened with Ron, she could always count on Harry and Ginny. She was lucky to have such good friends. She headed back toward her bedroom, her coffee in her right hand, Malfoy's tea in her left.

Outside the apartment, Harry's brow furrowed. He glanced up at Hermione's bedroom window, but could see nothing through the new gauzy curtains.

He pulled out his cell phone and began to tap out a text message.

* * *

 

When Hermione walked into the bedroom, Malfoy was awake. He sat against the headboard, his head lolled back boredly.

"Merlin's left arse-cheek, I thought he'd never stop talking," he muttered. "I thought you were the verbose one of that three."

_At least he's not angry,_ Hermione thought idly.

"I brought you some tea." Hermione settled on the edge of the bed. "Sorry about last night."

"Why?" he looked genuinely puzzled as he reached for the cup.

"That you got stuck here. I know it's not exactly a shag and retreat, like you'd prefer." She shrugged. "Anyhow, would you like something to eat? It's the least I can do."

"Are you offering to..." Malfoy stopped himself, and eyed her with a strange, searching expression. "I suppose I might as well. Can you even cook?"

She looked vaguely offended, and began to rifle off all the variations of eggs and toast that she was capable of preparing.

Malfoy, still seated on her bed, listened in a sort of daze. He barely understood half of them; despite his French name and wealthy parents, Malfoy house-elves relied on traditional British stodge. Traditionalism, after all, extended to the kitchen as well.

He wondered if he'd ever been in a house where the people living there could cook. He doubted it; his mother certainly couldn't prepare anything more complex than tea. Astoria needed help opening a crisps packet; Pansy once asked him if an aubergine was something that went into pies.

"...Florentine, though I'm hesitant about the spinach. It seems a little wilted," Hermione continued, "though I'm just going to have a muffin and butter and marmalade. I've got some leftover guacamole from taco night..."

Where did you learn to make all these things? Malfoy wanted to ask. Of course, he didn't. That would've looked like he was curious about Mudblood ways. He was, of course, but he didn't want to admit to that fact. And what in the world was _guacamole_?

"A muffin's fine," he interrupted.

She nodded cheerfully, and ambled out toward the kitchen. He followed her, dressed only in his undergarments. His head swivelled around, searching for Weaselette.

"Where's your friend?"

"Gin? She left already, not to worry. Sit down! Enjoy your tea."

He watched, silently, as she worked. When they were in school, he had avoided her. He hadn't watched her in the Great Hall, or in Potions. He'd never studied her movements. Now he did; they were precise, exacting. She moved quickly and directly to each cupboard, and expertly used the puzzling array of silver appliances.

Besides, how could he ignore her when she walked around in a thigh-skimming nightie?

"Were you walking around in front of Potter like that?" He rolled his eyes. "No wonder he wanted to go out for lunch with you."

Her face screwed up with disgust. "Harry? He'd never think of me that way. And vice versa. Ugh, he's like my brother."

Malfoy snorted bitterly. "He's a man."

He thought she'd be irritated by that comment; he'd said it partly to annoy her. At least, if they were bickering, it would bring some normalcy to this frighteningly domestic morning-after.

She wasn't annoyed. Instead, she twisted her head around and shot him a pitying glance. "What a cynical way to view half the population."

She turned her back to him once again to finish cooking. He was glad of it. That single comment resonated in his mind - cynical. He felt a nauseated coil in his belly, and his face felt hot. It was such a mudblood sentiment, so perky and unrealistic and childish. But sickeningly, terrifyingly, a small voice within him agreed.

_What is she doing to me?_

He had to get out of this flat; he suddenly felt choked and claustrophobic.

"Actually," he blurted out, "I forgot I'm supposed to sit in an eight o'clock meeting."

She smiled, oblivious to his internal panic. "All right. Take your muffin with you. Will I see you today?"

"Ah, no. I'm visiting my mother... Madam Malfoy... tonight. In Wiltshire."

Hermione raised one eyebrow in amused puzzlement. "Have fun."

He grabbed the proffered muffin and fled the flat. Hermione shook her head and began to nibble at her own food, muttering to Crooks about Malfoy's inexplicably shaky social skills.


	8. Malfoy Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy tries to find some equilibrium by going home and surrounding himself with like-minded Purebloods. It doesn't work. Note, no smut this chapter, but smut shall return forthwith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, all.

When he went into work, Percy was already there. His eyes widened as Malfoy walked in at 7:55 on the dot.

"A bit early for you, hmm, Princess?" Percy snorted from his doorway.

Draco scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're spoiled and I can tell that you were always allowed to have a lie-in... especially since you were an only child."

"Ugh, I can only imagine the horror you had of waking up to Weasel, Weaselette or the delinquent who manufactures firecrackers." Malfoy shivered. "I just... needed to get out, you know? Work seemed like a good place to escape to."

Percy nodded sympathetically, his earlier teasing gone. "I understand, mate. Living alone's never that enjoyable."

He froze for a moment; he had momentarily forgotten his well-furnished little flat over near Granger's. "Right, yes."

Percy eyed him for a moment. Draco realized that his unguarded reactions had piqued Percy's curiosity, so he said nothing more. After a moment's searching gaze, Percy turned and headed back into his office.

"Hey, Malfoy, I was hoping you could answer a few letters for me today. I'm tending to a small family crisis," Percy called out from his office. "I'll probably be tied up all day."

"What, did Weasel find some other dumb bint to knock up?" Malfoy called back as he searched through the morning's correspondence.

"Oh, very amusing, Malfoy." Percy sighed. "No, Ronald's gotten it into his head that Hermione's seeing someone new."

Draco froze, a letter held in his hand, his eyes wide. He said a silent prayer of thanks that Percy could not see him at this angle.

"Malfoy? You still there?" Percy asked after a moment.

"Ah... yes. I just see one of the secretaries coming in."

He tossed the correspondence back into the tray, then stalked into Percy's office, shutting the door behind him.

"Good idea. I don't mind airing my dirty laundry a bit to you, but I'd rather not have the entire secretarial pool discussing it by tomorrow," Percy said.

Malfoy sat in the chair facing his boss, an expectant look on his face.

"I'm surprised you care about Ronald's woes," Percy commented lightly. "You're not going to use this to make fun of him, are you?"

"I never see Weasel, nor do I want to," Draco replied tautly. "I figured we're friends. You listened to my Astoria problems..."

"True enough." Percy's mobile vibrated, and he gestured to it on the side of his desk. "Ron's been texting me all morning. Apparently, Harry thinks Hermione's seeing someone new, and texted Ron to say it's definitely over between them."

"Why would Potter think that?" Malfoy winced at how reedy his own voice sounded.

"That she's dating someone new? I haven't a clue, but the two of them know each other better than anyone. He's likely right about her." Percy shrugged. "So Ron's been texting half the Ministry, trying to find out the name of his rival. Apparently it's Goldstein."

"Goldstein?!" Draco could feel his eyebrows shoot into his hairline. "Why him?"

"Oh, I don't know. Granger always thought Goldstein was cute. And he's working for some mining company that's always working with Hermione's division in order to get environmental permits approved. They work together quite a bit, he's even meeting her today for lunch."

"Is he?" Malfoy's teeth gritted. "How nice."

"Not for Ron it's not." Percy shook his head. "You'd think he'd have learned. Look at this question he just texted me, _'Do u tink hErmione will be angry if I coinsidentally go to lunch at La Poul ax Ufs Door as well'_. I mean, really, I shouldn't have to tell him that stalking's a bad idea."

"His spelling is horrific. Not just the French - La Poule Aux OEufs D'Or isn't that simple - but he even seems to have some difficulty with his native language."

"This isn't about Ron's stupidity - well, yes it is, but not his academic stupidity," Percy snapped. "This isn't normal after a breakup."

Malfoy frowned. "I don't think H... Granger would date Anthony Goldstein. He doesn't seem her type."

Percy's head snapped up from his mobile phone. He frowned at Malfoy.

"You don't know Hermione."

Draco felt his face suffuse with heat, and it took him a moment to come up with a suitable response. "Maybe not, but I know that women don't want to go from one whorish boyfriend to another."

Percy looked at him a long moment, then snorted. "You're right there, Malfoy."

"Ah... I better get back to work. Got to leave at five on the dot... my mother's holding a party at the family home, and I'm expected."

"I thought you hated Wiltshire." Percy's brow furrowed.

"Errrm... yeah, but I can't skip out every time." Malfoy's words tumbled out quickly, nervously. "I'll just... ah... go. Let me know if you need to chat again."

He practically fled from Percy's office. Percy, despite his penchant for pompousness, was not as socially blind as some. Percy knew _something_ was not quite right with his overbred, neurotic friend, and although he felt as if he had all the pieces of the puzzle, Percy could not quite put it all together.

* * *

Malfoy turtled his chin into his wool coat as he walked down Dumbledore Memorial Lane. He felt like a fool; when he left the office, he'd told himself _I'm just going for a tea and a scone; I don't care if Granger's out at a disgustingly romantic French bistro with that whore Goldstein._

Except that his favourite tea shop was on Diagon Alley, nowhere near the French restaurant. As his feet propelled himself in the wrong direction, he convinced himself that he just needed to stretch his legs. He almost believed it, even as he paused across the street from the Bistro, and looked into the wide plate-glass windows.

There she was. She was beautiful, like an ornament framed within the window. Goldstein was over-coiffed, his suit was too tight, and he looked like an oily used broom salesman. Revolting. They were laughing together. She looked happy, and sipped at a generous glass of red wine.

Draco felt a nauseating lump in his throat. Without the tea _or_ the scone, he turned around and hurried back to the office.

* * *

Malfoy left at half four. Percy seemed to hover over him all afternoon, asking far too many "concerned questions". _Are you all right, Malfoy? You look miserable, are you sure?_ _You didn't even pick up your tea and scone._

It was disturbing; it meant that the unfeeling Malfoy facade had failed him. Over a _mudblood_.

He shuddered as he stalked toward the floo. He _definitely_ needed to go home. The city - and its liberal ideas - were surreptitiously percolating into his psyche. Back in Wiltshire, he'd be back with his own kind, and all these disturbing ideas would melt away. He'd feel _normal_ again.

"Malfoy Manor," he articulated crisply.

A poof of green light, and a moment later he was standing in the foyer.

"Mother?"

He heard the rustle of his mother's silk petticoat, followed by the sharp staccato of heels on marble. When she entered the foyer, she carried with her a cloud of violet perfume.

It felt familiar and warm. This place never changed - not the sounds, not the smells - except for a few more lines on Mother's face and a bit more scuffs to the flooring.

"I didn't realize you were coming, Darling. Why didn't you owl me? I haven't enough place settings."

"I'm sorry, Mother, I didn't mean to inconvenience you. I can take supper in my room."

"Don't be silly. Shrinky will just need a few minutes. You can go have a brandy with the gentlemen - I think you're old enough now to be trusted." She paused, her brow furrowing. "Are you feeling well? You look a bit peakish."

"I'm fine. I'll just freshen up and join you all in a minute."

His mother nodded, still looking vaguely concerned. Draco, despite the familiarity of his childhood home, still felt on edge. He headed up the stairs, trying to keep his thoughts on his evening wear, rather than Granger and Goldstein.

* * *

Draco had trouble listening. He had been seated next to old Madam Bulstrode - the grandmother, not the mother - and he'd been woefully inattentive to her. Nor purposefully, of course, but he'd made several faux pas. As the gentleman next to Madam Bulstrode, he should have pulled out her chair and engaged her in conversation; distracted, he'd failed to do either.

He felt his mother's questioning gaze from the head of the table, but did not look up to meet it.

During the sorbet course, he realized Madam Parkinson was talking about him - not directly, but in that obtuse way common to purebloods.

"...so glad my Pansy got married at eighteen. This recent fashion of late marriage is a foreign idea, imported from _the outside_. It can only lead to fallen women and unhappy bachelors."

Draco ignored the pointed glances he was receiving from the other people surrounding the table - except, he noted painedly, the look of hope from the zaftig, sixteen year old Harrietta Bulstrode.

"Yes, Millicent is very much looking forward to moving to Wales, though I'll miss her terribly." Madam Parkinson took a sip of her claret. "The young Upjohn is a fine young man. We're quite pleased."

Draco dropped his head to hide his surprise; he hadn't realized Millie was getting married. He supposed he would receive an invite soon enough. And to David Upjohn! The boy was only seventeen and already had a reputation as a degenerate. But, his bloodline was pure as the new-fallen snow. That's all that mattered; he felt a flash of uncharacteristic pity for poor Millie. She wasn't pretty, but she was bright enough, and kind to her friends. Had she realized that she was the sacrificial lamb?

"Young Mister Upjohn has an older sister who's unmarried," Madam Bulstrode continued. "I think she's twenty now - her fiance was killed during the great tragedy."

"Yes, I know - she's my second cousin," Madam Malfoy replied, eyeing her son. "How go the repairs to Bulstrode Abbey?"

Draco recognized that his mother was trying to save him, and for that he was grateful. Madam Bulstrode forgot about weddings and betrothals, and began to complain vociferously about the Ministry's construction permit division instead.

* * *

After supper, Draco had to make conversation and sip brandy with the men for an hour - any less and he would appear rude - but excused himself at the first opportunity. He could hear the ladies in the adjoining room; one of them was playing the piano. He figured it was Harrietta - the girl was clearly husband-hunting.

As Draco headed toward the stairs, he overheard conversation from inside the lavatory. Madam Parkinson and Mother, he thought, gossiping as usual. He paused on the staircase, eavesdropping without feeling guilty.

"Pansy is a bit ungrateful, at times. She always has been - I suppose I'm to blame, Cissy. I always did spoil her."

"No, no, don't be silly, Forsythia. It's understandable. She's in a foreign country, with a small child, and she was naive enough to think her husband wouldn't take a mistress." His mother sighed deeply. "I hope you've made it clear to her that she cannot leave her husband. Imagine the scandal! No good person would associate with her. And what about her son? She can't think her husband would allow her to bring his heir back to England."

There was a moment of silence before Madam Parkinson began to speak; her voice sounded unnaturally cheerful, given the dark subject matter.

"Of course he wouldn't. Though I can't say I'm happy my grandson's being raised in that militaristic Prussian style - young men over there simply don't learn the impeccable manners we value in England." Parkinson snorted. "Admittedly, Draco wasn't the best example of English manners tonight."

"Goodness, he wasn't was he?"

"Don't worry about it, Cissy. Draco is usually a gentleman. It's probably that _job_ he has to go to." Parkinson spat out _job_ like an epithet. "Being around those sorts of people, around that kind of filthy environment, without people like us... he's probably under immense stress."

His mother didn't answer for a moment. "Perhaps... Anyhow, Forsythia, we should rejoin the ladies. Young Miss Bulstrode seems to have stopped butchering Mozart for the time being."

Draco fled upstairs.

* * *

Someone knocked softly on the bedroom door.

"Come in."

Draco's mother, in dressing gown, curlers and slippers, walked in. Her nightly beauty regimen still remained exactly the same as in his childhood, he noted. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed. He lay atop the covers, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling.

"What's wrong, Darling?"

"Nothing." At her dubious glance, he sighed. "It's nothing you need to worry about. I'm fine."

"You're clearly _not_ fine. I haven't seen you this upset since Pansy cheated on you with Count Von Schmetterling."

He flinched at that; Mother had always been perceptive. Even now, not knowing anything about this _thing_ with Granger, she'd hit close to the mark.

"You can tell me, Draco. You can tell me anything."

He gritted his teeth. "Mother, don't be ridiculous. I can't tell you _everything_. I'm a grown man, and like pretty much all grown men, I don't always behave as I should."

"I doubt you'd shock me. You were never _that_ bad." She paused. "You seemed very upset by the news of Millicent's nuptials."

He let out a soft growl. "Everyone is making plans for her to go headfirst into a miserable arranged marriage. I feel sorry for her."

Narcissa nodded. "Me too."

Draco's head snapped toward his mother, eyebrows shot into his hairline. Narcissa's lips pulled into an amused half-smile.

"That surprises you? I'm not heartless, Draco. I _was_ young, once. I remember my friends being pressured into betrothals. Purebloods aren't like mudbloods, Draco. We have high - and sometimes difficult - standards for our children. It's not hopeless - after Millie's married and has an heir, she'll have far more freedom."

"You mean she can have an affair," he spat out the last word like an epithet.

"Isn't that better than a lifetime of loneliness?" she asked softly, brushing a lock of blonde hair from his face.

"You and Father were never like that," he replied, voice petulant. "You got to choose who you wanted."

Narcissa smiled wistfully. "It's true, Draco, but we were the exception rather than the rule. Both me and Bella fell in love with suitable husbands. My parents allowed us to be relatively independent, and Lucius and I never regretted any of the twenty three years we had together."

She watched him for a moment, and her gaze felt sickeningly pitying.

"I'd never do to you what they're doing to Millie, Darling, you know that," she continued. "You're still very young, and you don't know what you truly want. But you've never disappointed me."

He didn't respond to that, and she stood. She began to make her way to his door when he called out to her.

"Mother?"

"Yes, Draco?"

"Would your parents have let you be so independent if they had known Andromeda would run off with a mudblood?"

She froze. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. "I... don't know. I doubt it."

She stood there, like a startled-looking statue, for far longer than Draco liked. After a minute, she mumbled a good-night, and hurried away.

Draco had come home to get his bearings, but instead, he felt even more off-kilter than he had that morning. As a child, his views of his family, and families like theirs, had been untainted. But now he was an adult, and... and what? He couldn't quite finish the sentence, not even to himself.

He felt an ugly knot in his stomach, and the urge to flee. Because he did not _want_ this. He saw his future laid out for him, an unending shuffle of whist games, dinner parties, and foxhunting with the same half-dozen families, again and again until he died.

The clock read 9:55. Resolve took over; he leapt out of bed, grabbed his rucksack, and hurried for the floo.

* * *

Draco couldn't believe he was doing this. He felt like an idiot.

Percy had written out the instructions on how to use the fellytone machine they'd installed in the office. Draco had declared that he would _never ever_ use such a hideous piece of muggle technology, no matter how it had been magicked for use with the Ministry.

And here he was using it not seven weeks later... to try and pick up a mudblood.

_Right, pick up receiver. Press zero. Press the number you want to call. Wait for it to ring. The person on the other end will answer, not answer, or it will go to an answering machine where you can leave a recorded message the recipient can access later._

Draco looked down at Percy's - what did he call it, a Rolo-Hex? Despite the ominous name, Draco had found Granger's phone number - two of them, actually, one listed _work_ , the other listed _home_.

He tried _home_ , and when it began to ring, he nearly slammed the receiver down in panic. His heart hammered in his chest. What if Weaselette or Pothead answered? He figured he'd put on a thick French accent and say - _oh, it iz ze wrong nomber_. Surely wrong numbers occasionally happened?

Then there was a clicking noise. "Hello?"

Dammit. He couldn't tell if it was Weaselette or Granger - it didn't sound like either of them.

" _Ah, I am look-eeng for 'Ermionee Granger."_

"Hermione! Phone! It's some Arab guy, I think!"

Ah, so it was that daft bint Weaselette.

A moment later, he heard Granger's distinctly-bossy voice. "Hello? Who is this?"

"It's me," Draco replied.

"That's not helpful," she replied testily.

"It's Malfoy. Draco."

She was silent, and he could almost hear her shock from the other end of the line.

He continued, "I want to meet up tonight."

"Ah... there's a bit of a problem, you see." She sounded cagey, and for a moment, his anger flared.

"Why, do you have a date?" he snapped.

Visions of that greasy blond... _Anthony-fucking-Goldstein_... danced through his head. He was the type of man who probably wore muggle Axe body spray and was planning to take Granger to some shitty nightclub where the drinks came in test tubes.

"What? Don't be stupid." She over-emphasized her next few words, and he suddenly realized she had others who could overhear the conversation. "I can't really do any _work_ from my apartment tonight, _Ahmed_. I know it's a crisis, but I have nearly a whole quidditch team over for a post-match party - it's quite noisy - so if you're insistent that you want to do this _conference call_ , I'm open to it, but I'll have to go elsewhere."

He knew he shouldn't feel a wave of relief, but he didn't care. "My place, twenty minutes. Corner of Diagon Alley and Snape Circle, flat 201."

In a flood of adrenaline, he slammed the phone down before she could answer.

She wasn't out with Goldstein.

In fact, she was at a party, and she was going to nip out for a quick shag at his flat.

He felt elated.


	9. Malfoy's Apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know many of you love pr0ny, smutty chapters. Below, you will find that sort of thing, unencumbered by plot. BUT... if you like more innocent chapters, you need to GTFO! That's right... click "back" or type "cute overload" into your browser... DO NOT read on if you're a minor or if you don't like explicit content!

Draco raced out of the Ministry building. What had he been thinking - twenty minutes!? How was he supposed to get home and get everything ready in twenty minutes?

As he raced up the rickety old staircase, and into his flat, he looked around - shite, he'd left dirty robes lying over his couch. He hurriedly grabbed them and stuffed them under the coffee table. Granger liked booze - shite, did he have any booze? He vaguely recalled hauling it all over to Goyle's last month for an epic Slytherin alumni piss-up.

He sighed. All the shops were closed now, and every Pureblood he knew was either leaving his mother's house in Wiltshire, or was on their way to the Black Kneazle. Oh God, why did he invite her over here?

Breathe, Draco. First things first - he dug out a half-finished bottle of bourbon from under the sink;a souvenir from that poofter Zabini's visit to Greenwich Village in the United States (pre-Greengrass breakup, of course). Should he offer her something to eat? Pureblood social conventions never really prepared him for "visit from a mudblood for a quick shag," etiquette.

His panic about his shoddy hosting skills was abruptly interrupted by his door buzzer.

"Yes?" he replied.

"Ermmmm... Ahmed, it's me."

She was here. The first guest he'd ever had to his flat. Not Goyle, not Zabini, not any of his friends - nobody had crossed that threshold. Fleetingly, he wondered why - but suspected that if he examined the fact too closely, he might turn up something even more anxiety-inducing.

He ran downstairs in spite of himself. Granger stood at the door, scuffing her feet on the cobblestones, looking terribly self-conscious.

"Hi, Ahmed."

"Granger." He smiled. "You look different. You look pretty."

And she did - she wore a puffy pink jacket, a Kenmare Kestrels T-shirt, jeans, and trainers. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore no make up. She looked awfully young compared to her usual professional, carefully made-up look.

She snorted. "I look like a slob."

"No."

He stepped forward, knowing he was probably making a mistake, and tentatively stepped forward. His hands rested on her hips, and he pulled her toward him into a hug. She froze, for a fleeting moment.

"Malfoy, someone might see," she protested quietly.

"Who cares?" He let out a tired sigh. "I suppose you're right. Come on upstairs."

They walked up the stairs together.

"What about Wiltshire? Did your mum cancel?" she asked hesitantly.

He snorted at the thought of his mother as a Mum. "No, Mother didn't cancel. I went. I got bored. I left."

"What, brandy, cigars and blood purity discussions just doesn't do it for you?"

He glanced witheringly over at her. She smiled sweetly, but there was a hint of acid to it.

"No." He pulled out his wand and unwarded his door. "Ladies first."

Now it was her turn to snort. "I wasn't aware I was a lady, in your eyes."

"Close enough." He opened the door. "Go ahead. I haven't booby-trapped it."

She stepped in tentatively, eyes swiveling around the room. Malfoy felt a fleeting thread of hurt - surely she didn't think he'd do anything untoward. He was a gentleman, after all.

"Wow, Malfoy. Look at this place."

He shut the door behind him and re-warded the door.

"I know it's kind of sterile," Malfoy replied apologetically. "Coat - I'll hang it up here in the closet."

She warily handed it over, eyes never leaving him as he carefully slid it onto a coat hanger and shut the door. He watched her as she carefully kicked off her trainers and padded into the sitting area.

"Are you joking? This place is amazing. It looks like something out of a design magazine."

"Therein lies the problem." He sighed. "The furniture comes with the place. It's a bit... impersonal."

"Wow, better than mine. Mine's for two people, and it's a quarter of the size of your place." She peered out the wide plate-glass windows. "And you have a fantastic view of Diagon Alley. If it's impersonal, get a roommate. Or stick a few photos on the wall."

He smiled wryly. "I'll consider it. Bourbon? I'm afraid I haven't any wine."

"Sure."

He ignored his own shaky fingers, pouring out a shallow brandy glass for each of them. Hermione smiled brightly as she took it from him, and his skin felt electrically sensitive as her fingers brushed against his own.

"So you like my flat, hmm?"

"Pfft. It must be nice being rich." She grinned cheekily. "Cheers."

"Cheers," he said quietly.

The two of them drained their glasses in front of the window. Malfoy could identify every pureblood who passed by on the street - one of the Greengrass girls, already looking sloshed; two Pucey boys, chain-smoking and heading toward Knockturn Alley; old Madam Macmillan and Madam Nott, laden down with shopping bags and heading toward the floo.

What would they think if they saw Granger up here? What would they think of me?

He slapped the curtains closed, as if doing so would shut off his racing thoughts.

"Hey, Malfoy, are you all right?" she rested a hand gently on his shoulder, and he turned around to face her.

"I'm fine." At her disbelieving frown, he continued, "Just thinking about how my family and friends would react if they saw you up here with me."

"Malfoy... we can stop this whenever you want," she said softly. "It's not a big deal."

"I don't want to stop this." He swallowed deeply, feeling as if there was a lump in his throat. "I know the consequences."

He felt as if he had said something that shifted the weight of the world. Granger, clearly, did not feel the same way. She frowned with what looked like concern.

"There won't be any consequences." Her voice was firm. "We're just two people having a little fun."

He realized, with some irritation, that she was trying to convince herself. For an intelligent witch, she was certainly trying to keep herself blind to the obvious risks. Discovery was always a possibility, and it would stain their reputations for the rest of their lives.

Not that he was going to remind her of that fact, not when she stood two feet before him, ready and willing.

"Reducto Granger's shirt," he snapped.

Her Quidditch tee fell into pieces on the floor. Her fear was replaced with irritation.

"Malfoy! That was a gift!" she protested. "What am I supposed to wear now?"

"I don't care," he replied, eyeing her simple white brassiere. "Take off your jeans."

She raised one eyebrow in disbelief.

"Fine."

Malfoy pointed his wand again. Her eyes widened, and her hands hurried to the button at her waist. She shimmied out of them, revealing a fluorescent orange thong. He surveyed her for a moment, then reached over and snapped the elastic waistband.

"You're a prat today, hmm?" she smirked.

He had been staring so intently at her breasts that he didn't see her reach for her wand. Where she kept it, he had no clue - it certainly hadn't been in her skimpy bra and panties. When he realized she was pointing it at his chest, he let out a startled yelp and scrambled away from her. She began to chase him through the apartment; he ended up jumping over his sofa and racing into his bedroom.

The chase ended when she froze in the doorway to his bedroom.

"What, Granger?"

"It's not what I expected."

Her head swivelled around, peering at the decor.

"Expecting gargoyles and snake heads?"

"I don't know what I was expecting." She paused. "Not quidditch posters and empty pumpkin juice bottles. And that blanket. I can't believe you complained about the Chudley Cannons curtains at my flat."

He glanced toward the bed. It was just a plain angora bedspread...

Too late he realized it was a ruse. Granger barrelled towards him as he turned away, using her weight to knock him down onto the bed. She pointed her wand at him and muttered an incantation that he didn't know - who would've thought her bookishness so useful in the bedroom? - and he found his back and arms stuck to the bed like a magnet. She straddled his hips, hands propped up above his shoulders, her curtain of hair falling down onto his chest, her breasts a few inches away from his face.

He began to laugh.

"What? What is it?" Granger asked, suddenly puzzled.

"For seven years you and I were always fighting. If I'd known you'd shag me at the end of it, maybe I would've just given up on all the chasing and duelling and let you win."

"Oh, like you would've wanted me at Hogwarts." She rolled her eyes.

"Never underestimate the power of a beautiful woman. Hell, maybe I would've changed sides," he replied, and, with one quick movement, he craned his neck and pressed a kiss to her mouth.

She reciprocated, tasting of warm bourbon and smelling like vanilla candy, her tongue moving alongside his with the confidence of a longtime lover. Her eyelids had fluttered shut, and he admired the half-moon of impossibly long lashes fringing her eyelids; the luminosity of her pale skin.

Slowly, impossibly slowly, she began to undress him. Her fingers brushed against his throat and his smooth chest as she worked at the row of mother-of-pearl buttons. As the fabric slid apart, revealing his stomach, she let out a soft mewl of appreciation and slid her hand over his flat muscles.

He let out a groan of discomfort. She had seated herself upon his groin, and her weight, and her little shifts of movement, had hardened his cock uncomfortably within his trousers. He tried to shift against her, to give himself some relief from the pressure, but the spell kept him firmly stuck to the bed.

"What, Malfoy? Aren't you going to try to escape?" Granger whispered in his ear, so he could feel the heat of her breath against his skin. "I thought you liked being in control."

His reply sounded ragged, even to his own ears. "Are you enjoying this?"

That wasn't the answer she was expecting. She cocked her head before answering, "Yes."

"Then do what you want to me," he murmured.

She raised her eyebrows but didn't question his consent. She shimmied down his body, now straddling his knees. Now she began unbuttoning his fly. His raging, painful erection felt trapped against the woollen placket. Once she finally freed him, he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Silk boxers. How very bourgeoisie," she murmured.

"I'm not denying..."

His words turned into a sharp hiss as she palmed his sac. She laughed, and leaned her head down so her mouth hovered tantalizing inches over the crown of his erection. His breaths grew short. And then, just as he thought she'd pull down his pants and relieve his need... she pulled away. His throat let out an involuntary cry of disappointment. Her nails dragged over his stomach, down the thin line of golden hair between his belly button and groin, and finally down the sensitive bit of skin on the inside of his thigh. His muscles jerked into movement, trying to desperately escape her spell and thrust his erection upward.

Fleetingly, he realized that she could do anything to him in his current condition. She could've hexed him, slapped him, anything. Yet she'd done nothing but subject him to this pleasured, welcome torture.

His mind raced. He could not form coherent thoughts anymore. All he wanted was release - to grab her tits, to grab her hair, her arse, and push inside her.

"Please," he whimpered.

"Please what?" she teased.

"Please, Granger, I can't take this anymore. I need..." He knew she wanted him to beg, and he would do it even if he felt shame. "I need to come."

She smirked, and stood up over him - standing on his bed, so he was staring straight up at her wet thong. She wriggled free of it, and he found himself looking up at her pink, flowering pussy lips. The thong dropped onto his chest, but he barely noticed.

"Please, Granger..." At her slow response, he added urgently, "Fuck me. Now."

She placed one hot thigh on each side of his hips, and his eyelids fluttered shut at the feeling of her hot, wet core brushing against him. She taunted him, brushing back and forth against him but refusing to allow him entry. Silently, he cursed that damned spell she'd used. More than anything, he wanted to grab her hips and ram into her as hard as he could. But she had trapped him, and he was subject to her control.

Her eyes rolled upward as she began to slowly impale herself upon him, millimetre by millimetre. And, trapped as he was, he did the only thing he could. He leaned his head forward and pressed his mouth hard against hers, catching her bottom lip between his teeth, showing his frustration in a bruising kiss.

Her eyes flew open. Her nostrils flared. She used her hands to push him down on the bed, and slammed her hips down against his. The possible bruising was worth it, for the intense, overwhelming relief he felt. She rode him, arse rising and falling, breasts bouncing tantalizingly close to his mouth, close enough that once in a while, he could dart his tongue out and catch it. It elicited a high-pitched, satisfying cry of pleasure from her.

Suddenly, she yelled out an incantation, and he was free. But by now he was too close to stop. His hand, now released, went to her breast, pinching one sensitive pink nipple. Even that small abuse sent her over the edge. With one last drop of her hips, she froze. Her head fell backward, as if in worship. He felt her insides tightening around his cock. And from her throat was ripped a high-pitched, animalistic yowl.

He grabbed her hips, tightly, knowing they might bruise, as if pushing into her as deeply as possible might prolong the moment. But then, she collapsed, sticky and hot, against his chest.

Without giving her a moment to recover, he began to thrust upward, grabbing her hips and pushing them - up and down, up and down - against his cock. She still seemed limp, propping herself up with her shaky arms. When she began to whimper, and he wondered momentarily if it were too much for her. But he was overcome with the need to not just finish, but to finish deep inside her, to fill her with himself. So he selfishly kept going, and she did not tell him to stop.

It didn't take long. With a few hard, jerky thrusts, he felt the white-hot sheet of pleasure overtake him. Involuntarily, he pulled her hips downward, pushed as hard upward as he could, and felt the warmth of his own release. It took him a moment to realize the roar of pleasure was coming from his own mouth.

Suddenly, it was over. He felt like a jellyfish pooled over the bedcovers. When he looked up, Granger was still above him, heavy lidded, shining with sweat, exhausted, hair twisting in every direction.

With his last reserve of energy, he pulled her against his chest, wrapped half the bed-cover over them, and muttered a quick Nox. Within a moment, he could hear her breaths become deep and rhythmic. A few seconds later, arms still around her, he joined her in sleep.


	10. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets rarely stay hidden forever. No smut this chapter. I promise more is coming (PUN INTENDED).

Hermione yawned widely. The sun streamed brightly through the window. She felt utterly relaxed, other than the vague ache in her lower regions...

Wait a second.

The sun was far too bright. The sheets and blanket felt like silk, far different than her usual scratchy synthetic coverlet. And there was a warm, hard, distinctly male body wrapped tightly around hers.

_I slept over at Malfoy's flat._

The thought made her freeze. She was supposed to be having incredibly hot, but emotionally unattached, one-night-shags with him. Then again, he'd stayed over once at her place. That hadn't turned this - thing - into a complete disaster, had it?

"Mmm, Granger, stop shifting around, I'm trying to sleep," Malfoy muttered, his hand sliding over her arse and down her leg.

She glanced at her watch. "It's half eight, Malfoy."

He stilled. Though her back was to him, she felt his tension.

"Shite. I forgot to set my alarm." He was a flurry of movement, the bed sheets flying open. "Come on, then, we've both got to get up."

She felt his lips on her shoulder - an unexpected kiss - before he jumped out of bed and hurried out of the room.

"Use the ensuite. I'll use the lav in the guest room." He paused. "Do you want breakfast? Coffee and toast all right?"

Still lying naked on the bed, Hermione felt off-kilter. Was this what one did with a one night stand? Cuddled with them overnight at their flat, woke up, used their ensuite, and got them to make breakfast for you?

It seemed so much closer to _dating_ than _shagging a random acquaintance_. More than dating, even. She'd never cuddled Viktor. Ron had never offered her breakfast.

"Yeah, I guess." She sat up, and scanned the room for her clothing. "You banished my shirt."

"Don't worry about it. I'll find you something."

She tried not to think as she soaked in the ensuite tub; as she lathered herself with Malfoy's bottle of sandalwood-scented soap and stared up at the marble tiled walls. And when she left the bathtub, wrapped in a fluffy blue towel, she still tried not to think of the predicament of her clothing, or her now-empty flat, or Malfoy offering her the lav.

"Malfoy, I shouldn't have stayed here."

"Why? There's plenty of room." He shrugged and gestured to a tray on the counter. "Have some toast and coffee."

"You made toast and coffee?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Well... ah... no. I don't know how to do that sort of thing. I just ordered it from my mother's house elf. But he's very good."

She cringed in disbelief. "You're a twenty year old man who can't make toast, coffee or..." she stalked over and sniffed near his mug. "A cup of tea?"

Malfoy's cheeks flushed hotly, and he said nothing. She took the proffered coffee cup, not sure whether to be horrified at his utter uselessness, or charmed by the fact he'd remembered that she preferred coffee, and preferred light breakfasts, and had arranged both with his mother's house-elf.

* * *

Percy Weasley yawned widely. Ginny's match party had gone past midnight, and he'd drank three pints of lager - two pints more than he'd intended. It was now well past nine, and he had only just arrived at work. All the administrative staff were already at their desks. He thought back to poor Hermione, who had snuck out early to go do a conference call to Arabia, and still hadn't returned three hours later when he left the party. Percy bet that she was already up and bossing around her staff on the fourth floor.

As he staggered past Malfoy's desk, he noted it was empty. Unsurprising. After all, Malfoy family dinners were apparently twelve-course affairs, involving lots of brandy, port, and table wine. He'd probably floo in at ten, hung over and grouchy.

Once inside his office, Percy immediately noticed something very strange. The telephone receiver lay off the hook - just sitting on his desk, with the dial tone beeping. And when he sat down in his chair, he noticed his rolodex lying open. He had definitely left it closed when he left the office the night before.

It lay open to G. He glanced at the long list of names - _Granger, Goyle, Grubbly, Gargoyle De-Hexing Services..._

_How very odd. Who could've been in my office? And why use the telephone?_

Not for the first time, Percy felt a flicker of frustration. Something was going on, something he kept finding clues about, but he wasn't quite quick enough to put it all together.

Percy swivelled his chair around and looked out his window. Outside, he could see the various bureaucrats streaming into the front doors of the Ministry, including his tow-headed colleague, rushing through the crowd, dressed in only a sweater even though the temperature had dropped to near-freezing.

_Why didn't he floo in from Wiltshire?_

Even as he was supposed to be preparing for the morning's all managers meeting, he felt distracted by Malfoy's mystery.

When he walked down to the main boardroom, he was surprised to see Hermione's chair empty. Goyle sat across from him, looking vaguely hung over. Percy wondered just how many of the bureaucrats had spent the night drinking and watching the match. Goyle yawned widely and downed a glass of water in one go.

"Late night, Goyle?"

"Fuck off, Weasley," Goyle muttered, "you look like shite, too."

"Yes, but I don't make a habit of it." Percy rolled his eyes. "After all, I'm not the one who got hammered on stolen whiskey in the Policy Division two weeks ago at ten o'clock at night."

Goyle stared at him a moment. "What the fuck are you on about, Weasley?"

"You and Malfoy. After the Knight Bus dog and pony show. My office, drank all my Glenfiddich. Ringing any bells?" Percy rolled his eyes.

"I never went to the Knight Bus thing. Mother's corgi ate a bat spleen and I had to take him to St. Mungo's. I figured Draco would've told you about it."

"Hmm," Percy replied.

Malfoy, on the contrary, _had_ told Percy all about his night at the Knight Bus Memorial event. But in Malfoy's retelling, he'd spent the evening getting drunk with Greg Goyle, and had retreated after the event to the Policy Division, where the two men had drank half his secret bottle of Glenfiddich. Which meant that Malfoy had lied; but why? He felt a thread of hurt - after all, Percy had come to consider Malfoy a friend, and thought they'd gotten to the point of mostly trusting one another.

Hermione's arrival interrupted his thoughts. She slipped in two minutes late, flushing hotly with embarrassment, and wearing an oversized black wool coat as if she'd just run into work. She slid the coat over the back of her chair. Inwardly, Percy thought she looked nice - her robes looked a bit more formal than usual.

"What is Granger _wearing_?" Goyle stared across the table at Granger.

Percy scowled over at Goyle and his friend Pucey, but their gossip was undeterred.

"Isn't that Prada, from the resort collection last year? My mother wanted it but father said we couldn't afford it... we were still a little concerned we'd get charged, you see..."

"It's got to be a knockoff from Wizarding Beijing," Goyle hissed. "Granger wouldn't even be allowed into Prada's magical boutique. She's always wearing Muggle outlet clothing."

"I think it's real, Greg. Look at the side seam. It's red."

Percy leaned over. "I think it's wonderful that you two are so open about your interest in ladies' fashion. Tell me, though, I thought you were married to a woman, Goyle?"

"Oh, go bugger yourself," Goyle snapped.

Still, the barb had its effect; Goyle and Pucey were quiet for the remainder of the meeting. Still, when Granger stood up, he couldn't help but look closely at her clothing. It really didn't look like something she'd wear. It was tailored, long, with a smart pinstripe and matching fabric-covered buttons. It looked like something one of the pureblooded ladies would wear to Ministry volunteer ladies' luncheons.

After the meeting ended, he silently watched as she carefully picked up the wool coat from the back of the chair. It looked familiar, but he couldn't quite say where he'd seen it. After all, wool peacoats weren't anything unusual.

He left the room just a minute after Hermione. Usually, she would've gone to the fourth floor - six floors down from the boardroom, and best accessed by the elevator. Instead, she walked toward the staircase, her head swivelling around suspiciously. Percy's brow knit. He was silently thankful that the route back to his own office just happened to follow Hermione.

Idly, he wondered if she had a liaison planned with Goldstein. He cringed; he had no desire to see Granger hooking up with Goldstein in some random broom closet or paper supply room.

But no - she took the stairs down one floor, then two. Eighth floor, just like his own division. And as he followed a good fifty metres behind her, she walked straight toward the policy offices, as if it were perfectly natural for Granger to be four floors away from her own office, in an area that had nothing to do with her own work.

Her head darting back and forth, she walked through the cubicle farm, and stopped at - Malfoy's desk. Percy hesitated, partially hiding behind an empty cubicle so Granger wouldn't notice him.

That stupid mating ground policy was supposed to be finished, at least for the time being. What could she possibly want with Malfoy?

He watched her carefully. She peered into Malfoy's cubicle, and sighed. It was empty.

At that moment, Malfoy walked around the corner, head turned down to look at some papers. When he looked up and saw Granger, he broke into a wide grin. And, far from responding as Percy expected, Hermione conspiratorially smiled back at him.

Neither of them spoke. Granger simply handed the peacoat to Malfoy. He nodded sharply, and as she turned to leave, Percy spotted - for a fraction of a second - Malfoy's hand reach out and touch her arm in what looked like a caress.

Percy, suddenly, felt like a fool for not seeing it before. With stark, crystalline clarity, the pieces fell into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to point out that I've made minor edits to this version of the story versus the one on FF.net. They're all spelling, grammar, or sentence structure corrections that I missed when I originally posted.


	11. Carelessness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, gentle readers. My boyfriend used up all my internet at my apartment so I've had to go out to a cafe to get my chapter updated. I've moved cities and jobs and all has been hectic and awfully depressing. So, I hope that you get a little happiness from this next chapter. It's got no naughty bits, but it moves along the plot a little bit.

Hermione felt a flush rise to her cheeks as Malfoy surreptitiously caressed the soft skin on her wrist. He shot her a mischievous, quirked smile before folding up his peacoat.

"Thanks for letting me borrow your coat, Malfoy. I can't believe I forgot mine at your place."

"I suppose that means you'll have to come by to pick yours up," he said quietly. "And to return Mother's robes. She'd get so upset if she discovered it was missing."

"She'd be more upset if she discovered who had it, I'm sure."

"Oh, definitely." He smirked. "Especially if she found out _why_ you had it."

"I didn't think banishing my shirt was nearly as funny as you did," she chided. "I've got to get going, but I'll see you after work?

"I'll be waiting."

One of the admins came to the doorway to her cubicle, and both Hermione and Malfoy schooled their faces into masks of indifference. Hermione nodded sharply, and stalked out. Malfoy watched her retreating form, feeling mildly idiotic at his perma-smile.

"Malfoy."

He jumped at the sound of Percy's voice. When he turned around, Percy stood a few feet behind him. Percy's expression was suspiciously blank, and his arms were crossed over his chest.

"Ah... how long have you been there, Weasley?" Malfoy asked slowly, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Long enough." Percy pressed his lips together. "I think we should go into my office."

* * *

 

The silence seemed to stretch like an overblown balloon. Malfoy felt his own heartbeat thudding in his chest, though he kept his expression neutral. Percy watched him, scowling, from across the desk. A sudden, panicked thought rose to the forefront of his mind - once Granger got wind of their discovery, it would be the end of their fling.

Percy's terse voice snapped him from his thoughts. "How long has this been going on?"

Malfoy tried to sound nonchalant. "Has what been going on?"

"Don't play me for a fool, Malfoy," Percy snapped. "How could I have been so stupid? It was so _obvious_ , now that I think on it. The stolen whiskey that Goyle mysteriously had no knowledge of. My rolodex lying open to Hermione's number. That mating grounds law you _conveniently_ became obsessed with over the past month. Coming in late all the time..."

Malfoy felt his face redden. He hadn't realized how awfully sloppy he'd become.

Percy leaned forward over the desk. "This ends now."

A flicker of anger cut through Malfoy's embarrassment.

"Pardon me, Weasley?" His voice was clipped. "You may be my superior at work, but that doesn't extend to whom I may or may not shag. Moreover, I doubt that Hermione would be terribly pleased to learn that you took such a paternalistic approach to her sex life."

Percy's scowl melted away. He leaned back, scrutinizing Malfoy's face with undisguised puzzlement. Malfoy couldn't help but shift nervously in his chair. Anger or distaste - he could handle those. But he had no idea how to react to Percy's curiosity.

After a moment, Percy's jaw dropped with dawning realization. "You actually fancy her."

Malfoy's even hotter blush betrayed his answer. Was he so transparent?

"I assumed it was some kind of nefarious little plot on your part. You know, to get back at my brother, or at Harry. I mean... it's pretty strange, you and Hermione," Percy said. "What's actually going on between you two?"

"Merlin if I know," Malfoy muttered. "It's not as if I intended to get together with Granger in any way, shape or form."

Malfoy felt Percy's pitying gaze upon him as he rubbed his hands over his face. His nervousness, though, began to infinitesimally vanish; until this moment, Malfoy hadn't realized the tension he'd felt at holding onto his secret. Oh, as a youth he'd had secrets on plenty of occasions, but always shared with friends or family.

He began to speak now, nearly unbidden.

"We were drunk - of course, how else would we have ever been capable of speaking civilly to one another, never mind, well... you know." He sighed. "It's not going anywhere, I don't think. Granger's a mud... muggle. They've got different ideas about sleeping around. But I'm not going to hurt her, and I'm not going to tell anyone. Despite what you may think, I'm a pureblood, we don't advertise their lady's secrets. It's not what gentlemen _do_. And you better not tell anyone, either. Imagine what it would do to Granger's reputation - not to mention how much trouble she could get into at work."

Percy's eyebrow quirked. "Interesting."

Malfoy scowled at Percy's purposeful vagueness. "Oh, don't try to be obtuse, Percy, you don't do it well. Are you going to keep it a secret or not?"

"I won't spread it around." Percy smirked at his own joke, but his expression grew serious. "I'll say one thing, Malfoy. You haven't been discreet, and if I've caught you, I'm sure other people at least have their suspicions."

"Let me worry about that," Malfoy replied. "I'm going to be a hell of a lot more careful from now on."

With that, he stood and left Percy's office.

* * *

 

Ginny Weasley yawned widely and flopped into her mother's well-worn sofa. Harry and Percy settled next to her, while George sipped a beer next to the fireplace.

"Ugh, work was exhausting today. I'm so glad Mum's making supper." Ginny sighed. "It's too bad Hermione won't get to come over for family suppers anymore."

"Right now, most of us would rather have Hermione here than Ron," George commented. "Besides, Ron's not even coming tonight. We should ask Hermione to join. Mum and Dad wouldn't mind."

"She can't. She's busy tonight." Ginny waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "She spent an hour doing her hair and make-up. Ron's right, she's definitely seeing someone new. I just wish I knew who. She wouldn't tell. Harry? Surely she dropped you some hints?"

"If she wanted me to know, she would've told me," Harry replied. "And before you ask, no, she hasn't, and I haven't asked."

"Why wouldn't she want us to know?" Ginny asked excitedly. "There's no harm in guessing, right?"

George and Harry laughed. Ginny noticed that Percy was strangely silent. His gaze had fallen downward, and he focused intently on smoothing out a wrinkle in his pants.

"Oooh, Perce, you know something, don't you!" she squealed. "How? How do you know and me and Harry don't? I mean, we're her best friends!"

"It's nothing," Percy muttered, and under Ginny's accusatory gaze, he added, "I just saw something I probably shouldn't have when I was at work."

Ginny grinned. "Who is it?"

"I'm not telling you. Harry's right. She'll tell you if she wants you to know," Percy muttered.

Ginny singsonged, "Hmm... is he... from the same year as her at Hogwarts? Is he rich, blond, and works with her?"

Percy's head snapped upward. "Did she tell you?"

"I knew it! I knew it!" Ginny crowed. "Ron's going to lose his mind when he finds out!"

"Oh, Ginny, don't tell him," Harry sighed. "And don't bother Hermione about it, either, she's had enough trouble with her love life lately. Let's go help your mum with supper."

* * *

 

After supper, Harry and Percy ended up on washing-up duty. It left the two men alone in the kitchen.

"Hermione seems happier than she has in a while. I'm glad she's moved on to someone decent," Harry said.

"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Percy muttered, examining a spell-cleaned dish for leftover dirt. "I thought you'd be livid."

"Why? Hermione's happy. Anthony Goldstein's a nice enough bloke..."

"Anthony? Why..." Percy stopped himself before he blurted out any more. "Well, erm, I mean... Hermione can do as she pleases, of course."

Harry froze. He understood Percy's unguarded comment immediately. "If it's not Anthony, then who?"

"It doesn't matter..." Percy said weakly.

"Blonde. Our year. Works with Hermione." Harry thought. "I'd say Luna, but Hermione doesn't swing that way. But that basically would leave Malfoy, and..."

Percy's wide eyes and tense, frozen posture answered the question. Harry's jaw dropped.

"You're joking. _Malfoy_. Right now, Hermione's out with _Draco Malfoy_? For God's sake, Percy, how could you let him go anywhere near her? He's probably trying to trap her into some kind of... oh, I don't know, some plot... as we speak!" Harry snapped. "We've got to go find her."

"That's what I thought at first, but now, I think he actually fancies her," Percy protested. "He basically told me as much. It's not just that, Malfoy's my mate. I can see he's always moping about when she's away, and trying to find excuses to sneak off. And it's been going on for a few weeks."

"I hope you're right." Harry crossed his arms. "Hermione's my friend, and if you're wrong, and Malfoy hurts her - it'll be your fault, too."

Percy swallowed deeply as Harry stalked out of the kitchen.

* * *

 

Malfoy plodded up the stairs, his heart thumping in his chest and his teeth gritted. Tonight she'd end it - once she learned that Percy Weasley knew, she'd have to.

Wouldn't she?

After talking to Perce, he'd sent her a note in a fit of panic. _"I want to meet with you. Six, your flat?"_

He assumed that Percy had not spread the word about his and Granger's unwise coupling, because she'd breezily written back, _"Sure! I'll bring the wine, you bring yourself,"_ signed off with a big happy face.

She wasn't going to stay happy, he was fairly confident of that. He stood in front of her door for a moment, thinking about how he was going to explain it to her. Honestly, it was mostly _her_ fault. She'd been the one who had shown up at his desk for no reason this morning. All right, so he'd reached out and touched her, and perhaps that had been a little indiscreet on his part...

He heard footsteps coming down the stairs at the end of the hallway. At the fear of being seen - he didn't need them to be discovered twice in one day, and certainly not by Granger's gossipy neighbours - he began to insistently knock at the door.

"It's open," she called back.

When he stepped inside, she was still in the lav. He scowled at the half-shut door as he kicked off his shoes.

"Granger, that's not safe. It could've been anyone knocking at the door," he chided.

He heard her tinkly laughter from behind the door. "Oh, Malfoy. I can recognize your footsteps and that weird rhythm when you knock at the door. Besides, I helped defeat Lord Voldemort. I think I'm safe enough."

He flinched at the name of his defeated master; it was another unintended tender spot she'd hit, a reminder of why _this_ was destined to end, painfully and spectacularly.

"Are you all right? You look really broody."

He realized she'd stuck her head out the door. She looked beautiful; she hadn't finished her make-up, but her hair had been gently smoothed out, and a halo of happiness seemed to ring her face.

A feeling of warmth flooded his chest. A smile involuntarily spread across his thin lips.

"Just thinking too much," he replied. "You look incredible."

And then his traitorous mind soured the moment, flashing back to when he'd seen Granger and Goldstein at that fucking romantic French bistro. He'd told himself he wouldn't mention Goldstein. After all, they had no claim to one another. Mentioning the fact that he knew Granger and Goldstein had gone for lunch would, at best, make him seem vulnerable and expecting a _relationship_ , or worst, like a stalker.

He found himself mentioning it now, unbidden. "How's Anthony Goldstein doing? I saw you out for lunch with him yesterday."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't even ask. He's a nice enough guy, but his company's desperate to mine this area in Wales that's home to a colony of rare gold-tipped Hippogriffs. I've turned down their permit four times, and tries to pay for lunches, offers to make charitable donations - honestly, does he think I'm that easily bought?"

She let out a little indignant huff; he found it adorable.

"A lot of people do like to be wined and dined, Granger."

"Everyone likes to be wined and dined, Malfoy, but I'm someone he works with, not his girlfriend." She paused a moment, her exasperation transforming into something more like curiosity. "Malfoy, you didn't think that Anthony... never mind."

Her cheeks pinkened, and he suspected what she'd been ready to ask. He wasn't about to volunteer the answer to her unfinished question.

She changed the subject. "You look really good. New robes?"

"No." He left it at that. "You're still in your work clothes."

"Well, it's not as if we're going out. Why put on something new just to take it off again?"

She grinned cheekily and winked at him. But their conversation had planted a seed of an idea into his mind. He slipped his hand into his pocket - good, the portkey mother had given him was still there. Sure, she'd expected him to use it in a couple of days, but nobody would know any better if he used it early.

"Let's go out somewhere and have dinner," he blurted out.

"Wizarding London?" She quirked one disbelieving eyebrow. "You do realize we'd be recognized in an instant, and probably plastered all over the gossip rags by tomorrow morning."

"Not Wizarding London. I was thinking somewhere a little further afield. Somewhere nobody would recognize us and we could go wherever we pleased. I have a portkey, you see - I was supposed to use it in a couple days, but there's no reason I can't use it earlier."

She didn't answer, and he felt his face flush. He opened his mouth to backpedal - _okay, that was a stupid idea, of course you wouldn't want to be seen in public with me, I'm a fucking criminal after all and a fucking intern for a shitty government office and you're fucking Hermione Granger, lawyer slash manager slash heroine slash model-pretty genius that everybody loves..._

Except that she replied before he had the chance to - and it wasn't the answer he'd been expecting.

"Okay. Okay, yes." She repeated it, as if convincing herself. "Just give me a minute to get changed."

Malfoy hoped she'd do it quickly. His better judgment was telling him this was a bad idea, and Granger's doubtful expression seemed to mirror his thoughts.

Still, it was a small victory. Either she'd break this thing off after one last perfect night of drinking, eating, and shagging, or... her voice repeated itself in his head. _Everyone likes to be wined and dined, Malfoy, but I'm someone he works with, not his girlfriend._

He rubbed his temples when he realized where his thoughts had strayed, and tried not to dwell on how he'd placed himself in such a stupid, vulnerable position.

All these thoughts vanished as Granger exited her room, now encased in a silky, thigh-skimming violet dress. Her long, slender legs perched atop silver-gray high heels.

"Okay?"

"More than okay, Granger. Almost makes me want to stay in and take it right off again."

"Silly." She swatted his arm. "Where are we going, anyhow?"

He smiled. "Paris."

With that, he slipped his arm around her waist and palmed the portkey.


	12. Self-Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets a bit mopey and wangsty when things don't go his way. Hermione helps him feel better. Smut alert ahead!

The idea had been one perfect night of wining, dining and shagging before she dumped him. _Stupid, you can't be dumped if you aren't dating,_ he chided himself.

Except that all his plans kept fucking up royally.

First, the portkey. His mother had actually sent it to him so he could help her on her annual visit to the Spring trunk shows. Which meant that they didn't appear at any of the usual haunts - the entrance to the Magical District at Rue Melusine, or the Eiffel Tower, or the Place Blanche, or Les Halles. No, they were deposited directly in front of the Chanel shop on Rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

The shop he'd frequented since he was a toddler.

Where the doorman _fucking knew him by name_.

Damn.

"Bonjour Monsieur Malfoy." The doorman's eyes lingered upon Hermione, and Malfoy caught the surprise in his lifted eyebrow. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle."

Malfoy tried not to cringe. The doorman had recognized her, of course. Who wouldn't? She'd been splashed on the covers of the newspapers during that shitty Triwizard thing. And the doorman was magical - he allowed witches and wizards into the magical side of the boutique.

Strike one for _being careful_. Still, he didn't want Granger to think he was embarrassed to be in her company; nor did he want the doorman to think that he was doing something illicit and shameful with Granger ( _aren't I_?). So he did the gentlemanly thing and introduced her.

"Granger," he introduced, feeling the burn in his cheeks, "Elle s'appelle Mademoiselle Granger."

"Erm, Malfoy." Granger smirked. "Why are we standing in outside of the fancy ladies' clothing shops? Moreover, why do you have a portkey to here?"

"My mother gave me the portkey."

"I'm not sure that answers my question," she replied, still smirking.

"Every year she brings me along to help her carry the clothes she buys." He sighed. "Don't laugh. It's tradition, ever since I was a child. My father used to come along, too, before... well, before he couldn't anymore."

Her smirk shifted into a bittersweet smile. "So... you're telling me your mum is around here somewhere."

"God, no." He shivered. "Mother usually arrives on Friday with Madam Parkinson for a bit of a ladies night, and I come down on Saturday."

"Ah, well. Small mercies, I suppose." She gestured to her right. "You want some supper? There's a bistro near Les Invalides that was very nice last time I visited. Muggle, though."

"You've been to Paris?" He paused, feeling a little disappointed. "How do Muggles get across the Channel? A boat?"

She laughed. "You really _don't_ know anything about my sort, do you? Aeroplanes - it's a two hour flight from Gatwick to Charles de Gaulle. Or there's a tunnel with a train between Kent and Calais, but it's a bit pricey and takes longer."

"Muggles have built a tunnel without magic under the English Channel," he murmured, hardly believing it.

"C'mon, Malfoy, let's go get a drink. It looks like your pretty little head's about to explode with the knowledge that we muggles aren't complete Neanderthals."

* * *

 

They ended up in a tiny hole in the wall bistro just off Les Invalides - the sort of place that was a little obscure, and still had a decent table available in the front window. It was a Muggle restaurant, and he felt awfully nervous as he followed her inside. Still, nothing untoward had happened; nobody stared at him, there was nothing barbaric about the place.

She had surprised him with her adventurous tastes, and had ordered a squab dish to share. He'd been a bit hesitant at eating pigeon - rather like the rats of the sky - but not wanting to look unsophisticated, he'd gone with it, and hadn't been disappointed.

Of course, the fact they'd ploughed through a full bottle of Pinot Gris didn't hurt, either. Nor did the romantic candles lit on the table, or the soft jazz music on the stereo.

And she'd talked. Not stupid things, like Astoria's endless nattering about her Wireless soap opera; no, Granger liked to talk about politics and the books she'd read - usually biographies and history books. She'd travelled quite a bit, and talked about that, too. There would be no romancing her with a breathless first visit to the Eiffel Tower. Apparently, she'd been twice before.

Still, even if his plan had been to amaze her with her first sights of Paris, the night seemed almost perfect. This felt like a proper date, where you chatted up a girl you fancied, bought her a nice dinner, and took her back to your flat for a well-earned, gentlemanly shag. She looked awfully beautiful, all wavy golden-brown hair and red lips and tight purple dress. When he reached across the table to hold one hand, and used the other to caress her cheek, she just blushed and smiled.

And then it all went tits up. Granger said seven horrifying words that could not have come at a worse time.

"Oh my God, is that your mother?"

His hand dropped from her cheek. His head twisted to the left to peer out the window. His jaw dropped in horror at what he saw.

Mother, Madam Macmillan and Madam Parkinson were standing on the sidewalk across the street. Worse, it appeared that his mother's head was staring directly at him in the restaurant, her brow furrowed in what appeared to be a very, very confused expression.

He gasped. "What the hell is she doing here?"

"Judging by the bags, I'd say shopping," Hermione replied dryly. "Come on, just look away, I bet they won't even notice. They'll see a Muggle restaurant and they'll see me in my very muggle dress, and they'll assume you're just a Draco doppelganger."

"Maybe Macmillan and Parkinson, but Mother..." He turned his head away, letting his hair fall over his face to hide it. "I knew this was a stupid idea. I thought it would be fun to have a date. Why didn't I listen to my common sense?"

"We did have fun, Malfoy," Hermione cajoled. "You're overreacting. Look, they're walking away. They're not even looking anymore."

He sighed. "Let's just pay and go. If those three are here, you can bet that every rich Pureblood wife in Western Europe is also swarming the streets, readying for the fashion week. What's the currency here? Is it the Franc?"

Granger snorted. "Not since last year - everyone's gone Euro. I'll pay, don't worry. I've always got plastic."

"You are not paying," he hissed. "I invited you on a date. You're a lady, and I'm a gentleman..." He scowled at her snort, then continued. "It's _wholly_ improper. I've got money, I just have to exchange it."

"Malfoy, where I come from, it's not improper at all - maybe the man pays the first time, but certainly not after you've been shagging for a month."

"This is technically the first time we've actually gone out for a _date_ ," he pointed out.

"It is, isn't it?" She stared at him a moment, as if she was considering saying something more. Instead, she gestured to the waiter for the cheque. "If you're that worried, pay me back. At least this way, I'll get air miles, and you won't have to pay those awful tourist exchange rates."

He didn't know what air miles were, but he didn't protest anymore. He felt like there was a losing battle on all fronts. An enormous strike two - seen by three of the purest of pureblood ladies, including his mother. Worse, now Granger was paying the cheque. Worst of all, now their date had been cut short.

"I've got a portkey," he muttered. "Whenever you're ready, I'll bring us back to England."

* * *

 

Granger let out a startled squeak as she realized where they had reappeared. She now stood frozen in the front foyer of Malfoy Manor. Her eyes widened, and her hands began to tremble. _Shit_. Yet another fuck up.

He hadn't thought - hadn't even considered, in fact - her feelings for this place. To him, it was home, not the stage for violent wartime atrocities. They'd scrubbed down the wallpapers, refinished the floors, bought new rugs, and somehow his mind had neatly tucked away the horrors that had occurred here.

Seeing her reaction, the memories came flooding back - the sound of her screaming, the house-elf screaming and bleeding, Aunt Bellatrix's shrill laughter, accompanied in chorus by the portrait of Mrs. Black, and the sounds of terror coming from the basement while he tried to sleep upstairs, fingers in his ears.

He thought he might be sick. His hand reached out for hers, and he wondered if she might push it away. Instead, her fingers clamped tightly around his.

"Granger?" he asked.

Still she stared ahead blankly.

"Hermione," he whispered instead. "I shouldn't have brought you here. I'm so sorry."

Her eyes snapped toward him. "Are you?"

His brow furrowed. "Of course I am. What sort of a person do you think I am?"

She swallowed. "You've never mentioned it before. What happened during the war, that is."

"I don't like to think about it." He examined her fingers, still intertwined with his. "I don't handle the guilt well."

They stood awkwardly, silently, in the enormous front foyer. He rubbed his face with his free hand. This day had gone _horribly_. He wished he were anyone else right now; free of his past, free to do whatever he liked, whenever he liked, with whomever he liked.

Finally, he muttered, "Sometimes I wish I could burn this bloody place to the ground and never inherit the mantle of the Most Noble House of Malfoy."

"You don't mean that," Hermione snapped.

"I rather think I do. In fact, I've thought about it quite a lot. Not the arson, but the other bit..." He sighed deeply. "Oh, fuck it. Let's go home."

She was quiet a moment before asking. "Yours or mine?"

"Yours, if you'll have me." At her quirked eyebrow, he shrugged. "I like it."

Hermione said nothing. Despite the dark turn in the conversation, she had not let go of his hand. When he pulled her toward the cloakroom, she followed trustingly - despite having no idea where he was taking her, or that behind the door was the closest floo. A moment later, and they were safely and securely back on Diagon Alley, walking side by side. The bars were busy, but he couldn't be arsed about being careful, as he'd promised Percy not a day ago.

It just didn't seem important to stay anonymous anymore. In fact, he'd been so bold as to rest his hand on the small of her back as she let them both into her building. And she hadn't tried to walk apart from him on their way, nor had she jumped away at his public, affectionate touch.

"You here, Ginny?" she called out as she walked inside the darkened flat. "Nope. Must be with Harry."

As had become his habit, he kicked his shoes off and hung up both his and Hermione's coat. She walked into her room, pulling off her earrings and gesturing for him to follow.

"Do you want another drink? There's wine in the fridge."

"No." He sighed and settled on the edge of her bed as she began to remove her hose. "Things were a bit... I don't know, heavy, back there at the Manor. It's not put me in the mood to drink."

She glanced at him in the mirror, looking vaguely worried. Immediately she stopped undressing, and settled onto the bed next to him.

"You're really upset, aren't you? When was the last time you talked to anyone about what happened in the war?"

"Never," he replied. "It's not our way. Not outside the family."

"Well, why don't you talk to your mother?" she asked.

"My mother?" He scoffed. "She and Father brought me into the war. I don't even think I truly understood what we were trying to accomplish. I love my parents, you know. But sometimes I get angry, thinking about it... I mean, I wasn't even old enough to vote, or to drink, or read books from the Restricted section..."

His voice trailed off, and his face burned. He'd never voiced these traitorous thoughts before. It felt sickening to actually admit the feelings he'd kept dutifully hidden.

"We were child soldiers. I loved Dumbledore, but sometimes I get angry at how he used Ron, Harry and I. We have a right to be angry." Her voice was low, as if he were a frightened animal. "How long have you felt this way?"

"Long enough." He flopped back. "The war was so pointless. I really, honestly thought I was doing right, even when I felt sick at some of the things our side did. I was such a fool."

"So this isn't some overnight change of heart?"

She lay down beside him, propping her head on her hand to look at him. He felt as if he met her gaze, he might cry. That could absolutely not happen, so he just stared at her ugly popcorn ceiling and willed himself to maintain his composure.

"No. I don't know. It sort of just crept up on me." He sighed. "It's not just because I'm shagging you, if that's what you're asking. It's a lot of things. Father's trial. My friendship with that windbag Percy. My job. The Dark Lord's fall. My pureblooded friends' shitty marriages."

Suddenly, her face was above his, staring into his eyes with her compassionate dark ones. He had to shut his eyes for a moment at the nearly painful twist in his heart. Nobody - not Mother, not Father, not even Grandmama Malfoy - had ever been so _open_ in their emotions.

"Thank you for telling me, Draco," she said softly.

And then - unexpectedly - she lowered her face to his and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. His fear at her judgment and his anxiety at putting his emotions to words transformed into a raging, sudden desire that startled him with its force. When she pulled back, he reached for her waist. In one unexpectedly graceful movement, he flipped her onto her back and rolled atop her so he was straddling her thighs. She squeaked in surprise, then giggled.

He leaned down and kissed her, his tongue delving inside to meet hers. He had a sudden, inexplicable need to be within her - tongue, cock, all of it - as deeply as possible. Her soft whimpers underneath him, her lips massaging slowly against his, and her wriggling under his body only inflamed him more. His erection had sprung into life, irritatingly trapped within his trousers. She began to purposefully wriggle against it, sending frissons of pleasure through him. It caused him to moan into their kiss.

His hands slid under her dress to shove her bra up and off her breasts. He pulled back momentarily to look at her. Now, she looked utterly disheveled - dress hiked to her waist; pink panties exposed; hair curly and sticking in every direction; eyes wide and glossy with desire.

"I've never wanted you so much before," he hissed, leaning down for another kiss.

He palmed her breasts through the silky fabric, reveling in the feeling of pebbled nipples coated with soft satin. It seemed she did, too, as she moaned. Instead of kissing her mouth, he pulled away, and began to lick at the soft skin between her shoulder and neck. She whimpered, and continued to writhe beneath him. One hand trailed down from her breast, and to the waistband of her panties, yanking them down a few inches to expose her sex. One finger slid between her wet folds, searching for the bud between them - ah, there it was - and he began to gently circle it with one finger.

At his touch, she bucked beneath him and cried out sharply. The sound reverberated through the empty room, and he was sure that if any neighbours were around, they would clearly hear her sounds of pleasure. _Strike three for being careful._

He reminded himself that this might be the last time they slept together; and he decided it should be, if anything, memorable. Steeling his courage and fighting off his distaste, he shimmied down the bed and yanked her knickers fully off. Glancing nervously up at her, he caught her puzzled expression.

Looking at it closely for the first time, he decided her cunt was rather pretty - pink like a flower - and without giving himself time to be a coward, he leaned in and pressed his mouth to it, finding her clit with his tongue just as he had with his finger. In fact, it was far more pleasant tasting than he'd expected, doubly more pleasant when he saw the reaction he elicited when he began to lick around her sensitive bead.

Her hips shot up from the bed, and a high pitched wail of pleasure reverberated through the room. Only his quick reflexes saved him from what would've been a painful collision between his nose and her ricocheting hips.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she said, panting.

"Shh," he replied, using his hands to firmly pin her thighs to the bed, and delving back in.

Again, he swirled his tongue around her bud, licking up her honey, and listening to her cries devolve into wordless, uncontrolled moaning. It took considerable force to hold her down against the bed. When he glanced upward, her head thrashed back and forth on the pillow, her face was glossed over with sweat, and her hands madly clawed at the bedsheets. While she had been wet before, her juices now flowed onto the bed linens, and her nether lips had grown even more pink and thick.

When he went up for a momentary rest, she reached for his arm, and started to pull him upward.

"I want to do this," he protested, wiping his wet mouth with his hand.

"No. When I come, I want you inside me," she replied through her shallow breaths.

He required no further invitation. He unbuckled his trousers, sliding them down only far enough to grab his briefs and pull them to his knees as well. His cock felt like an overfilled balloon - tense, hard, and desperate for release. As he had worked at his placket, Hermione's hands shakily unbuttoned his shirt, and once unfastened, her hands slid over his chest and back.

Grabbing his cock, he lined himself up with her sopping entrance, and in one swift move, filled her. She gasped, and a small smile flitted over her lips as he bottomed out. He did not hesitate in pulling back and slamming inside once again, and again. He could feel her clit connect with his skin as he slid in fully, eliciting a cry from her each time.

Three hard, deep thrusts, that was all it took - and suddenly she shattered beneath him, flailing and sticky, reminding him of a hooked fish. At her orgasm, he stopped thrusting, but pressed in as deeply as he could, enjoying the clamp of her most intimate muscles against his rock-hard flesh.

"Oh, God, Draco," she cried out at her peak, the one semblance of language she'd managed since they had fallen into bed together.

Finally, she went still and slack, her breathing heavy, her body flushed.

"That was amazing," she murmured. "Keep going. I want you to come inside me, please."

Her request only fueled his desire further. He began to move again, feeling his chest brush against hers each time he drove into her body. Her hands were on his arse, pulling him deep. And, thinking of her words, he had an irrational, ill-conceived, yet strangely titillating thought - _if I wanted, right now I could put a child into her._

He felt his balls constricting at that moment, and the powerful release of his seed, warm and wet and shot deeply into her body. He pulled her hips tightly, imagining he could leave a piece of himself deeply within her body, until he was certain every drop was gone. He felt warm and satiated exhaustion overcome him, and he flopped down atop her.

"Thank you, Hermione," he murmured, pressing his lips to her damp forehead.

She made a small moue, and shifted as if to move out from under him. His softened member still remained within her. Her chest was flattened under his, and his cheek pressed against hers as he buried his face against the side of her ear. His legs splayed out over the bed so his weight would not be completely atop her.

"No, stay," he murmured. "Just for a moment. Please."

She made no move again, and a moment later, despite his body still blanketing hers, he felt the rhythmic breathing of her sleep. Not long after, he joined her.

* * *

 

She was already out of bed when he awoke, and when he walked out, her brow was furrowed and her head was down-turned to her mobile phone.

"Oh, Draco. You're up."

He noted the change in his name; once or twice, in a fit of passion, she'd called him by his first name. But when they awoke, they always returned to _Malfoy_ and _Granger_. Or perhaps it was a slip up?

"Is something the matter?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

"Just... something the boys have texted me." She shook her head. "And I've got an early meeting with Percy Weasley, and the one thing he lacks is brevity."

 _Percy_. Shite. He'd never gotten around to telling her about their discovery. He felt himself freeze, and desperately wanted to run out the door, to not tell her that Percy Weasley had discovered their illicit liaisons, and to save whatever semblance they had of... whatever this was.

"What is it, Draco? Is something wrong?" she asked.

He sighed. "There's something I need to tell you."


	13. Ripple Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secret is out, and our lovers start feeling some repercussions as more and more people learn. No smut this chapter, but more shall arrive down the line.

Hermione's eyes widened and she set aside her coffee cup with a resounding clatter.

"He saw us? Why didn't you tell me straight away?"

He shrugged. "I just wanted to have a good time - us to have a good time - and it sort of went bollocks up and then I forgot until this morning."

"He could've told half the Weasleys by now." She cringed. "Oh, God, I can only imagine how they'll take it."

"He promised he wouldn't tell anyone," Draco offered weakly.

"Look, I'm not happy but we'll have to discuss this some other time. I've got a bit of a crisis right now with Ron and Harry..." Her eyes widened in realization. "Oh my God, what if that's why they're texting me? How will I explain this to them?"

"I really doubt it. Perce is usually pretty good to his word." He scoffed. "Besides, I don't know why you're worried about what everyone else will think. Compared to Weasley, you're practically a nun."

"Ron never slept with Pansy Parkinson. But I trust you, if you say Percy won't snitch." She groaned in frustration. "I've got to go. It's half eight already - yes, see how you've had a lie-in? Make sure that when you go you lock up."

He nodded dumbly. She was just leaving him here in her empty apartment, with free rein to do as he liked, and trusting him to ward the door? Leaving him where Ginny Weasley or Pothead might walk in at any moment and see him?

On some level, he liked that idea - shocking those two morons during a Friday morning attempted shag...

Still madly texting on her mobile, she muttered something about talking to him later, slid on her shoes and coat, and hurried out the door. It shut with a resounding thud.

He poured himself the rest of the coffee from her little pot and drank it, stark naked in the kitchen, before wandering into the shower. Surely, if she'd left him naked in her apartment, she wasn't dead-set on ending it.

 _Right_?

* * *

 

Hermione walked into Percy's office, taking one last glance at her mobile. Why had she suddenly become so popular with the boys, if not their discovery of her ill-advised shag partner?

_Harry, 10:43 p.m. Hermione I really want to talk 2 you._

_Harry, 5:32 a.m. Text me when you're awake - I want 2 know if you are OK._

_Ron, 6:55 a.m. omG HemIonE can u pls call mi asap tyvm_

_Ron, 6:57 a.m. y r u not txting back txt me_

_Ron, 7:01 a.m. ok fine ingore me i going 2 sleep_

_Harry, 8:18 a.m. Are you getting my messages?_ Can we do lunch today?

_Ron, 9:02 a.m. awaek now call mi asap :(_

Setting her phone aside, she sat across from Percy, feeling her face flame under his wide-eyed stare. Since she'd arrived, he'd offered her a cup of tea three times, and seemed to stumble over her name twice.

"So, um. Right. What are we here for again?" Percy muttered. "Bat habitats. What was it about bat habitats?"

"Establishing an Administrative Monetary Penalty scheme for disturbing them," she snapped. "Like I set out in the agenda."

"Bats. Right. AMP's." He stared at her shirt. "That's a really interesting colour of shirt. Green. Is it new?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, for God's sake, Percy. I know you know about Draco and I, so just spit out whatever it is you want to ask me, otherwise we'll never get this meeting finished."

"Oh... it's nothing... I just wanted to say that I'm okay with you and Malfoy... knowing him as I do now..." he mumbled. "So, this bat thing. We really need to work on it. I'd give it to Malfoy to work on but he'll be leaving, so no sense in getting him started on something he can't see through."

 _Malfoy was leaving?_ The news hit Hermione like a ton of bricks. Why had he not mentioned this? She'd been sure - absolutely, positively sure - that after last night, he wanted something more than a casual shag. Malfoy was as neurotic and repressed as anyone she knew, so she hadn't pressed him about, not after he'd unburdened his doubts to her about the war.

She stared back at Percy dumbly, not knowing what to say.

"Oh, Gods, I can't lie to you, Hermione. You're just too smart - and I'm too transparent." Percy sighed. "All right, I admit it. I let it slip to Harry. It wasn't my fault - he guessed!"

Her worry about Malfoy was abruptly shoved aside by Percy's confession. _They knew._

"Percy, what exactly did you tell Harry?" she asked, crisply enunciating each word.

"Well... just that you and Malfoy were basically sort of seeing each other for a few weeks..."

"Oh, God." She cringed. "He'll think I've gone mad."

"No, no! I told him that Malfoy fancies you."

"Malfoy told you he fancies me?" she asked.

"Not exactly." Percy shook his head. "Harry didn't believe me, and thinks Malfoy's plotting something, which is just moronic, if you ask me. He's too high strung - a bit more Black than Malfoy, if you catch my drift."

She tossed her folder down in exasperation. "Oh, Percy, deal with this bat thing yourself. I've got to go - I expect Harry's gone and told Ron. Ron's been texting me all morning. And if he's told Ron... who knows what Ron will do to Draco. I've got to find the boys."

"I don't think so... Ron wasn't even home last night," Percy replied.

But Hermione had already raced from his office.

* * *

 

Malfoy glanced in the mirror in his office. He'd charmed his outfit from the day before - hopefully nobody would notice that it looked exactly the same, but for the new blue colour.

Percy paused outside his cubicle. "It's nice that you decided to make an appearance this morning, Malfoy. It's nearly ten."

"I had a late night," he muttered, "and a late morning, since I had to explain to _someone_ that you saw us together."

Percy frowned. "So I gathered. Look, about that. I've got to warn you. I expect that Ron's single again."

"What, was an unintended bastard not enough to cement himself and the Hairstyling Queen of Belfast in the bonds of matrimony? Colour me shocked."

"Sheesh, Malfoy. She lost the kid. I found out five minutes ago."

Malfoy felt a flicker of uncharacteristic guilt. "Ah... sorry, mate."

"It's fine. You weren't to know. Though I hate to say it, it's a bit of a relief." He paused. "That said, I think he knows about you and Hermione. And I'd bet you fifty galleons that he's already trying to make plans to get back together."

"Why are you telling me this, Percy?"

"Sometimes, for a smart guy, you're incredibly dim." Percy sighed. "You haven't even _told_ Hermione you fancy her. Do you think she's just going to be satisfied with shagging you every couple of days?"

"No, I don't think she will." Malfoy paused and picked at a khaki spot on his pants where the charm hadn't held. "She's not interested in anything more with me."

"Are you sure, Draco? Because she seemed pretty worried about you this morning when we talked. Just think about it, because otherwise, she'll end up miserable with Ron, and you'll be miserable alone."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Perce."

Percy frowned at his friend, and stalked back into his office. Somehow, Percy had only made Malfoy feel _less_ capable of talking to Granger. What would he possibly say to her? What could he possibly offer, what future could they possibly have? Especially with her little childhood Romeo, the Ginger Weasel, constantly trotting after her?

He sighed, and decided he'd spend the day reading the Prophet, drinking tea, and pretending to work.

That was, until he heard the rustle of taffeta and the smell of violet perfume. He didn't have to look up to see who was in his doorway.

"So this is where you work." Mother's voice dripped contempt. "How awful."

"Mother." He stood in greeting. "May I help you?"

"I suspect so. Let's go for a walk."

"I can't. I'm working."

"I spoke with your... supervisor... the Weasley boy. He and I came to an understanding that you will be absent the remainder of the morning." She pulled her cashmere cloak closer around her shoulders. "Come."

* * *

 

They sat in La Poule Aux OEufs D'Or, which, although not technically open until eleven, allowed Madam Malfoy and her son in alone. Draco ordered a tea; his mother ordered, "the driest, coldest Chardonnay you have on offer." He tried to keep the frown from his lips; but this too was a sign of his growing middle-class sensibilities. Older purebloods thought nothing of starting the morning with a measure of sherry or an early luncheon with a glass of wine.

"So you've come back early from Paris, then?" he asked awkwardly.

She waited until the waiter had left her glass of wine, took a delicate sip, set aside the glass, and pinned him with her icy blue eyes. "Do you think I'm a fool, Draco?"

He stared into his teacup. "I didn't think you'd see me if I went a little early to Paris."

"Ah, yes, when my friends pointed out that there appeared to be a Mudblood double of my son wandering about Paris with a trollop." She paused. "Until now, I wasn't entirely certain it was you, so thank you for confirming it without the trouble of me having to ask."

"She's not a trollop, mother," he snapped.

"She certainly dresses like one. And don't deny that you haven't been... fornicating." She paused, and Draco had to suppress a snort. "Shrinky told me you ordered two breakfasts, a tea and a coffee last week for your apartment. You don't even like that filthy sock water. I tried to send a letter to your flat last night, and this morning, and the owl returned to me unanswered."

"I could've been working late. Or eating a lot. Or have had Greg over for breakfast."

"Don't be stupid." She glanced out the window. "I knew there was something wrong that night you came over for supper. I knew you were seeing someone. I knew it had to be someone unsuitable, but I had no thought just _how_ unsuitable. Certainly you can't expect it to continue, and I want you to promise to end it today. Otherwise, how are you ever going to contract a decent marriage?"

Draco was not one to self-delude. He knew that this _thing_ with Granger was likely to end somehow - either due to his unsuitability, or just fizzing out, or some other reason. But he had also become entirely certain that he no longer wanted the future he had been expected to fulfill. He had no idea how his future should play out - but he wanted to decide for himself, and not blindly follow tradition.

Still, it was terrifying to reject everything he'd been taught.

He tried to sound confident as he answered, "No."

"No?" Mother sighed impatiently and swallowed the last of his wine. "Oh, good grief, Draco. It's just some Mudblood trollop."

"Don't call her that," he gritted out. "Her name is Hermione."

She froze. Her controlled, cool facade melted away. Her jaw dropped, and a gasp escaped her red-painted lips.

"What did you just say?" she whispered. " _Hermione Granger_?"

Draco realized he had unnecessarily revealed himself. Mother had not known the identity of his paramour, just that he had been seeing some unknown Muggleborn.

"She's the reason for our ruin! She testified against your father! How _could_ you, Draco?"

He realized that her hands shook. She reached into her reticule and pulled out a handkerchief, pressing it to her face.

"You don't even feel guilty, do you?" she whispered.

A sob escaped her lips, and she muffled it with her handkerchief. She stared at him a moment, as if seeing an insect on the dining room floor. Suddenly, she stood and fled the restaurant.

Draco sighed. To say this had not gone well was an understatement. He left a handful of galleons to pay the bill, and slipped out.

* * *

 

Hermione sat down at the Costa Coffee with her salmon and cheese sandwich. A moment later, she spotted Harry out the plate-glass window. He waved at her, and after picking up his own salad, he joined her.

"Hermione. It feels like we haven't seen each other in ages. I'm glad you agreed to lunch."

"It hasn't even been a week," she replied, just waiting for when he'd drop the bomb.

"Right... now, don't get worried, but there's something I wanted to talk to you about." He toyed with a packet of coffee creamer. "I'm not sure how to start. I was talking to Percy, and he mentioned that he thought you might have been seeing someone new..."

By this point, Hermione had lost about all the patience she possessed. She knew he would be angry, but it was best to just be out with it.

"If this is about me and Draco getting together, let me save you some time. It's true. No, I don't think he's up to some nefarious plot - there's way too much Pureblood neurosis there to be fake. No, I'm not Imperiused, and yes, I actually rather fancy him."

At this declaration, Harry's eyes widened. He stayed silent for a moment, digesting what she'd said.

"Well, I guess you're set on it then. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been more forgiving than all of us put together." He eyed her over his coffee cup. "I suppose you've thought it all through."

"I definitely wouldn't say that. I sometimes feel like I've gone a bit off the deep end, and I haven't any idea what I'm doing." She smiled nervously. "If it all goes tits up, you can be the first to say I told you so."

Harry shot her a small smile back. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Hermione. I was just concerned. As long as you're happy, and he treats you well, I'm happy too. And if he treats you badly - well, he'll feel the wrong end of my wand."

Hermione laughed, feeling a flood of relief course through her. "I knew there was a reason we were best mates. Now, tell me - what exactly did you say to Ron about it?"

His brow furrowed. "Ron? Nothing. I was at the Weasley dinner last night. He sort of vanished on Wednesday, and none of us heard from him until five, six this morning."

Hermione caught the hesitation in Harry's voice. "What's happened?"

"Lavender lost the baby on Wednesday. They've decided to split up, and apparently she's on her way back to Belfast."

"Oh." Suddenly she felt a flood of guilt about his ignored text messages. "I'm so sorry for him - maybe we should take him out tonight, just the three of us, like old times."

"Or... maybe not..." Harry picked a chilli pepper from his salad. "He's got this idea you're going to get back together with him."

Hermione raised one eyebrow in disbelief. Harry shrugged, as if to say _you know how he is_ , and continued eating his salad.

* * *

Malfoy intended to shuffle back to his cubicle, still thinking on Mother's betrayed expression and her stifled sob. Instead, he found himself wandering toward Hermione's desk. He suddenly, overwhelmingly, wanted to tell her about what had happened with Mother. Maybe she'd even offer a hug, or if he was lucky, a shag.

As he walked through the Magical Creatures Division, he thought he spotted a heavier, unkempt-looking Ronald Weasley getting into the elevator. But he was only there a moment as the doors slid shut. Anxiety wound through him - surely Hermione hadn't moved onto her slutty ex so quickly?

When he got to her office, he found it blessedly empty, but with a new decoration. A bouquet of a half-dozen wilted carnations flopped out from a plastic vase. It looked like the cheap favours that he'd seen sold outside of the petrol stations in Paris.

A note had been hastily scribbled beside it on a piece of scrap paper from the recycle bin.

_Hermione, CALL ME xoxo RONNIEKINS_

He flinched. Surely, even with their shared history, Hermione wouldn't be wooed by a galleon bouquet and a scrap paper card?

He suddenly realized how he'd slacked off. Even Weasley had managed an - admittedly shitty - gift in his attempt to woo Granger. He hadn't even managed to successfully buy her dinner.

If Weasley thought he was going to win, he had another thing coming. With new resolve, Malfoy stalked out of Hermione's office.


	14. Office Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another smutty interlude, including profane language - but shagging in indiscreet places has its risks...  
> Apologies in advance if the French is terrible - my practical use of the language was being hit on by a drunk septuagenarian at a St. Martin beach bar. Note that there are a few very slight word changes between this chapter and the one posted on ff.net though the content largely remains unchanged.

Hermione, satisfied by a languid, gossipy lunch with Harry, returned to the Ministry at half two - quite a bit later than she had rights to. Imelda's head lifted as she walked through the corridor.

"Oh! Miss Granger, you've had a couple of visitors while you were gone. Mr. Malfoy was here. Twice, in fact."

Hermione's eyebrow lifted. She'd just seen Malfoy a few hours earlier. What could he have possibly needed so quickly? Her mid raced with possibilities; after all, their evening had been far more intimate than they'd ever shared before. Not only that, but there was still the fact that he was apparently leaving - without ever mentioning that fact to her.

She felt as uncertain as those first days she'd slept with him, searching the crowds for blonde hair and feeling threads of nervousness each time she sent a note.

And then, she walked into her office, and was greeted with a very strange sight - two vases sitting on her desk. One was plastic, containing a half-dozen wilted bouquets, with a scrap-note paper written in Ron's distinctive handwriting.

Directly next to it sat an enormous glass vase filled with violet-coloured roses in the same hue as her Paris dress. The bouquet dwarfed its neighbour, making it looks starkly pathetic in comparison. A parchment card hung from the edge of the glass vase, its message in delicate calligraphy.

_Chère Mademoiselle Granger,_

_Merci pour ta compagnie et ta conversation._

_Fidèlement, D. Malfoy_

She stared at it for a long moment. The French wasn't quite right; though she was no native speaker, Hermione had never seen a French letter signed _fidèlement. Faithfully_ , she told herself.

Had Malfoy purposely chosen such loaded wording?

She sighed and rubbed her temples. This had suddenly, inexplicably become far too complicated. Ron obviously wanted her back, and Draco - well, what Draco wanted remained a mystery. The only thing that seemed certain was that he wanted to one-up Ron.

He'd succeeded, even if it left Hermione horribly confused about his intentions.

She scribbled off a note and sent it via owl - _Draco, we need to talk. Hermione._

* * *

 

She received no response until quarter to four, when a sharp knock sounded from her door.

"Who is it?" she called out.

"It's Draco," he called back. "You asked me to see you?"

It was, Hermione thought, yet another sign of their intimacy. When he used to arrive at her office, he would announce himself with the coldly impersonal Mister Malfoy. Now, he didn't even hesitate at using their Christian names in public, even if that were considered rather informal in the Wizarding world.

"Come in. It's open."

The door swung open, and when he shut it, he set the wards. His slate coloured eyes lingered first on Ron's bouquet, then his own -eliciting an arrogant smirk on his thin lips - then to Hermione. She felt a flicker of annoyance at his presumption - as if the _cost_ of the gift were what mattered.

"I suppose it's a foolish question to ask if you sent the roses." She sighed. "Your French needs work."

"I don't think it does. I speak it very well," he replied nonchalantly. "Did you like them? A damned sight better than Weasley's, eh?"

"So I was right. This is some sort of pissing match between you two." She pursed her lips. "Do you think I care about how much you _spend_ , Draco?"

"No." He dragged a finger lazily over one of the roses, so it swayed delicately in its vase. "My life would be so much easier if you _did_."

"So, why... this?" she gestured irritably to the vase. "It must've cost you twenty galleons! And why? To make Ron feel shoddy in comparison?"

"Oh, don't be stupid." He rolled his eyes. "Weaselbee doesn't even know I sent you these, and I figure he never will. But the man's an Auror and a war hero who rakes it in with a dozen licensing deals. Yet he can't even spring more than two galleons and a piece of scrap paper for a bouquet. What sort of gentleman behaves that way to a lady he's courting?"

"I'm not a lady, as you once noted." At his blank expression, she added. "You once said - and I quote - 'close enough'. Remember?"

"Not really. And if I said so, I was just trying to get a rise out of you." He shrugged. "By the way, Mother knows it was you and I on a date at that restaurant last night."

Her heart felt, for a moment, as if it had dropped into her stomach. Her eyes widened, and she could only form a gasp. He'd once told her about pureblood views on their own who slept with Muggles. He would have no marriage prospects, his friends would treat him as a pariah, and his mother would never speak to him again.

So this was why he was here. To end this once and for all.

She hadn't expected it, but she felt crushed that she would never see him again. Her heart felt sore and swollen in her chest; her throat felt thick, and she could not form words. She would never again touch that alabaster skin, never tease him over breakfast, never have a drink with him after work. It was foolish, of course - what did she expect? She'd known the risks going in. Except she'd never considered the possibility that she'd like him, that she'd find him charming, witty, sexy as hell...

It had never really crystallized in her mind that she _wanted_ this to last in some way, shape or form. At least not until now.  That she didn't just think of him as a casual shag anymore.

"She gave me an ultimatum, to end this today." He laughed, but it sounded awkward and hollow in her small office.

"And," she forced out the word, and her own voice sounded small and weak and pathetic.

"And what? I'm not twelve, Granger. I'm a twenty year old man." He shrugged. "And I think you're great, so I told her no."

She swallowed. It felt, for a moment, as if she'd been slapped with this strangely nonchalant, yet so incredibly heavy, declaration from Draco. It made no sense, knowing he planned to leave. Still, she felt pleasantly, chest-squeezingly warm at his declaration - _I think you're great._

Her ruminations were interrupted by the feel of his hot palm on her breast. His slim fingers sought out her nipple through the fabric, tweaking it gently, and eliciting a startled, pleasured squeak from her throat.

"Come _on_ , Granger. Surely you liked the flowers, just a bit." He frowned, and pulled her hand to try and get her to stand up from her chair. "You're not actually annoyed that I tried to one-up Weasley, are you? Thank God I didn't send you jewelry, like I originally..."

She cut off his words with a kiss, her mouth silencing his, and his eyes widening in surprise for a moment. He recovered quickly, one hand working at her buttons, the other groping for his wand and shuttering the windows to the office. Hermione only fleetingly noted that anyone could have seen their kiss - her secretaries, her policy analysts - yet she could not really bring herself to care.

"So you liked them, then?" he asked, sliding a hand under her skirt and up her thigh.

He tried to appear nonchalant, but Hermione could see a thread of bright, innocent hope in his eyes, something that a month ago she never would've recognized. It flooded her with affection. Draco wasn't as cold, arrogant and heartless as he let on. And she felt an odd privilege, knowing she had been let past his rude and sarcastic shell.

"They're the most beautiful I've ever gotten," she replied. "Thank you, Draco."

He preened. "I knew they were all right."

She slid her hand down the placket of his pressed trousers, sharply groping his package. He let out a startled groan, his eyes widening with surprise. In response, he lowered his head to hers and nipped her bottom lip. They stood like this for a few minutes, her tongue parrying against his, their mouths moving progressively harder against one another. Her hands deftly began to unbutton his dress shirt, revelling in the planes of his hard, marble-pale chest beneath her hands. Growing impatient with how slowly she worked at his buttons, he tore the last few apart, sending two buttons scattering across the room and leaving himself in only his navy dress trousers.

His hands hiked up her skirt, yanking down her turquoise thong. She barely noticed as it fluttered to the ground. One of his hands slipped downward, between her thighs, as the other snaked around her waist, pulling her tight against him.

She was already wet, and she felt his fingers move easily between her folds, quickly finding the bead between them and expertly swirling his index finger around it. The sheet of pleasure resonating from his fingers made her moan, and press herself firmly against his hand. He laughed, a deep, arrogant, throaty sound that only fired her pleasure even more.

"You never want this to stop, do you?" he asked.

She moaned as he reached up to flick her nipple, sending a frisson through her, making her weak at the knees. He took advantage of her swooning, and pushed her back onto her desk. His hand never left her pussy, massaging her clit, his finger sliding just enough into her channel to make her want more.

Suddenly, unbidden, came the memory of Percy - saying that Malfoy was going.

"I don't understand," she moaned. "You're leaving, aren't you?"

He seemed to freeze. His brow furrowed, and his amused, affectionate expression turned dark. Hermione felt a flicker of nervousness; but she could not react. During their kissing and caressing, he had maneouvred her onto her desk. He now lay atop her, pinning her against it, and there was no avenue for escape. His body lay over her, one hand at her chest - now pressing her down, rather than teasing her breasts. She could sense his shifted mood, yet strangely, his anger did not frighten her. His darkened eyes and furrowed brow, matched with his finger slid deeply into her most intimate parts, only aroused her further. Tortuously slowly, he slid his finger from inside her, curled his lip and flicked her clit, sending a flare of pained pleasure through her body. She felt a flood of wetness between her legs, and felt utterly, shamefully wanton.

She moaned.

"Pardon me?" his voice was cold. "Do you think you can just order me to go?"

"No," she panted. "I..."

He interrupted her, enunciating each word harshly. " _Who the fuck do you think you are?"_

And, in one swift movement - when had he even released his manhood? - he slammed himself fully into her. Her walls, as they did each time they conjoined, stretched at his girth. A deep, guttural moan ripped from her throat. Slowly, exactingly, he moved his cock out, watching her face with a scornful frown. Without giving her quarter, he had shoved himself inside again.

"Are you trying to use me, Granger?" he asked, scornfully. "Do you think you can just _order_ me to go when you get tired of me?"

"No-ooo," she moaned, her mind feeling thick and drunk with want. "No, Draco, never. I don't want this to end."

"Then what." He punctuated his words with staccato thrusts, knocking her backside against the hard, wooden desk and filling her body completely. "The fuck are you talking about?"

"Percy..." she panted, "he said you were leaving."

"I am _not_ going anywhere, Hermione," he hissed. "You're not getting rid of me."

 _I'm not going anywhere_. His words enflamed her more than his expertly applied touches. He wasn't leaving. He wanted to stay here with her - fucking her like a whore against a desk.

"I don't want to," she whimpered. "I don't ever, ever want you to stop fucking me. Please, Draco, please."

At her begging, his measured pace suddenly quickened. His angry expression vanished. His hands, which had been firm and motionless upon her hips, moved to her breasts, her thighs, her neck, smoothing over her skin. Those thin, scornful lips lowered to press kisses to her neck, and then down to catch her breast between his teeth. She felt that familiar fire building in her belly at his rhythm, at his intense gaze, at his wet suckling upon her breast, at his declaration that he wasn't leaving.

His head lowered to her ear. "That's right. You're mine. Not Weasley's. Not Goldstein's. You're only going to fuck me."

Suddenly, she clamped down on him, his walls clenching against the tight member that filled her body. It sent him simultaneously over the edge, and he clung hard to her, flopping down on her sweaty body, sandwiching her against the desk.

"Oh, God, Hermione!" he cried out, and she was certain that her entire staff could hear.

Surprisingly, she didn't really care. Her hands smoothed over his back as he filled her with his warm, wet seed, wave after warm wave. His body melted, flopping warm and sticky onto hers, his head resting gently against her chest as it rose and fell. They lay there a moment, catching their breaths, despite the uncomfortable desk beneath them.

After a moment, he lifted himself up just a few inches, so that his cock was still buried in her.

"I wish we were at your flat." He sighed. "Then we could just have a lie in and some coffee or wine. It's a lot more comfortable, too."

"Well, it's only a five minute walk..." she began, tenderly brushing his hair from his face.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching her door, and Imelda's sharp voice through her office door. "I'm sorry, you'll have to wait, Miss Granger is in a meeting."

"I don't need to wait. Do you know who I am? I'm Ron Weasley! She'll make time to see me!"

Hermione had never been so appreciative of Imelda before. Perhaps the girl wasn't as stupid as she let on.

Malfoy leapt off her, and began zipping his pants; she tried hurriedly to rearrange her skirt.

"I really must protest, Mister Weasley. Miss Granger's working on a very important policy initiative..." Imelda added shrilly.

"Oh my God, he knows my wards, I haven't changed them!" Hermione hissed, panicked. "Closet! Quickly!"

Still shirtless, Malfoy darted into her supply closet. Hermione's doorknob twisted just as Malfoy shut the door behind him. His dress shirt, and her turquoise thong, both lay abandoned on the floor. The door to her office opened.

"Hermione." Ron Weasley grinned from her office doorway. "Finally, I caught you."


	15. Causatum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron's arrival (unsurprisingly) does not go smoothly... Telenovela-worthy dramatics ahead, but no smut (sorry). One chapter left after this one, and I promise it'll earn its explicit rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All these kudos are pretty amazing, as are the comments. I can't believe the reaction to my little piece of filth... it's so inspiring. It's making me want to finish posting this one and write more...

Hermione leapt up from her desk, a small, nervous smile gracing her lips. Inwardly, she worried that her office still smelled of her and Draco's coupling. Imelda stood behind Ron, mouthing I'm sorry. Trying to draw Ron's eyes away from the incriminating evidence scattered around her desk, Hermione walked toward him.

A moment later, Harry appeared in the doorway, an irritated frown on his lips. He too entered the office.

"I told you to wait for me, Ron," he muttered. "You ditched me while I was in the loo."

"You knew where I was going. I knew you'd catch up." Ron smiled broadly. "Hey, Hermione. It's been a while. You look different somehow, I dunno how to describe it. Not bad - you look great, actually."

"Ron, mate, I wanted to have a word before you barged in here." Harry sighed, and glanced toward Hermione. "Ron insisted on visiting you before we met up with Gin for supper, and absolutely nothing would dissuade him."

All three lapsed into awkward silence for a moment. Finally, Hermione nodded toward Imelda, and the secretary nervously retreated from the doorway. Hermione's eyes flickered toward her supplies closet, thinking of Draco silently hiding within. Harry followed her gaze, and his eyes widened in comprehension. Harry glanced toward her desk - obviously suspecting what had just occurred - and took in the rose bouquet on the table.

In a remarkably subtle move, Harry sauntered past the flowers and pocketed the attached note from Draco. Hermione tried to convey her gratitude through a glance. Harry responded with a barely-perceptible nod.

She was brought back to the precariousness of the situation when Ron began to speak.

"Oh, 'Mione. We haven't seen each other in ages. And everything's changed for me now. I've matured. I know what I want. We can go back to the way..." Suddenly, his face screwed up, and his blue eyes stared at her desk. "What in the bloody hell is that?"

He had finally caught sight of the roses dwarfing his own sickly-looking carnations.

"Ron, I told you..." Harry began gently.

"Flowers from some other bloke?" Ron's tone sharpened. "Goldstein trying to buy your affections? You can't seriously tell me you've taken up with that disgusting, oily prat."

"Ron!" She frowned. "Anthony and I are just friends."

"What sort of friend gives you two dozen long stemmed roses?" Ron bellowed. "Moved on quickly, didn't you, Hermione?"

"Oh, that's rich." She rolled her eyes.

"Ron, stop," Harry spoke up now, his voice brooking no argument. "You're not her boyfriend anymore, and this isn't any of your business. I tried to tell you this before, but you wouldn't listen."

"We only broke up because I knocked up Lavender! We were perfect, other than that!" Ron snapped. "We've been going together for years. We defeated Voldemort together. What, are you telling me that Hermione would just throw that away for that greasy git Goldstein? Isn't all our history worth something?"

Hermione was suddenly struck at his immaturity - the rapidly shifting emotions, the obnoxious display of anger, and his simple-minded assumption that Lavender's pregnancy was the only fly in the ointment. How had she not noticed before? It was night and day from Draco's conceited, controlled facade.

"Ron, you seem very upset right now, and you're not thinking straight," Hermione interrupted him. "After work, we can catch up. I'll join you all for supper."

"Yes, come on, Ron. We'll all head over to the Pint and Paddle tonight, like old times," Harry added gently, gesturing to the door. "You can't expect Hermione to want to talk about her love life at work, can you? And I promise you, it's not what you think it is."

Hermione shot Harry a reproving glare - it _definitely_ wasn't what Ron thought; it was something he'd view as far worse - but Harry just shrugged. Ron seemed mollified by their soothing words, and nodded. He turned to leave, but at the doorway, turned back - apparently to say a last good-bye to Hermione.

Instead, his head cocked to the side. His eyes locked onto the flash of bright turquoise lying starkly against red shag carpeting.

"What's that..." His voice trailed off, and he walked back into her office to toe it aside with his shoe. "Hermione, why are your knickers..."

His eyes caught sight of white linen lying beneath her desk. Hermione felt frozen where she stood, her heart racing, as Ron walked toward Draco's abandoned dress shirt. Ron picked it up between two fingers, like he'd found a dirty handkerchief.

"Are you fucking with me?" he hissed. "A bit muted for Goldstein! He must've toned down the silk and leopard print for you, eh?"

Ron stood, examining the shirt, for what seemed like minutes, but must have only been seconds. The silence seemed to balloon in the room. The air felt like an elastic band, growing tauter and tauter until it would inevitably snap.

Hermione and Harry glanced at one another, neither knowing what to say.

"Why the hell does the cuff say _DLM_?" Ron demanded. "It doesn't matter. Goldstein's not going to..."

"Ron..." Harry interrupted nervously. "Let's go."

"She's been fooling around with him here, Harry. Don't you get it?" He turned to her, his eyes swimming with tears. "How could you, Hermione?"

There was silence for a moment, as Ron surveyed his two friends. Harry glanced between the closet door and Hermione, looking hot-faced and uncomfortable. Hermione stared at the floor, willing herself not to look in Draco's direction and reveal him.

"You knew, didn't you, Harry? You knew that she's been slutting it up with someone new, and you didn't even tell me," Ron's voice came out a half-wail. "Why would a man leave his shirt..."

Ron's rant halted, and realization began to dawn. The shirt, now forgotten, fluttered to the ground. Ron glanced at the window - only able to open a few inches - then to her single office door. His eyes swivelled around, finally landing on the supply closet.

"I wondered why the two of you kept looking that way," Ron said, his voice now remarkably flat. "Come out of there and face me like a man."

He stalked toward her closet and twisted open the door.

"Ron, don't!" Hermione cried, but it was too late.

Standing in her closet, bare-chested, hair rumpled, skin still shining with sweat, was Draco. He smirked at Ron.

"Not Goldstein, Weasley, but a valiant attempt at deductive reasoning on your part," Draco drawled.

Hermione cringed at his goading.

"Oh no. No, no, no." Ron's voice came out a low moan and he stumbled backward. "This can't be happening. Hermione, you're not - Harry, surely you didn't know..."

Draco picked up his shirt from the ground and slipped into it nonchalantly. "Of course he knows. Half of Wizarding Britain knows. And with all your shouting, you've let the cat out of the bag to everyone else."

"You'd shag this Death Eater garbage?" Ron turned to Hermione, his face red. "You fucking slut."

At his profanity, Harry and Hermione could only stare at Ron in shock. Until that point, Draco's demeanour had been remarkably blithe, given the circumstances. Now, his lip curled, and he turned to Ron.

"Don't speak to Hermione like that, Weasley."

"What are you going to do about it, try and murder me too?" Ron bellowed. "Just one more notch in your Death Eater belt, eh, Malfoy?"

Draco's wand flipped toward Ron, and Hermione reached for Draco's arm. "Stop - I don't want you in any more trouble. He's not worth it, please, Draco."

He lowered his wand, and slipped his hand through hers. "Wouldn't work anyhow. While on probation, I can't use any hexes."

"You're really putting on quite the act so you can fuck a Mudblood, eh, Malfoy?" Ron laughed bitterly, and he turned his hard gaze upon Hermione. "What do you think? That you'll go on little dates and walk hand in hand through the park together? That he'll go home and tell his mum that he's found a lovely girlfriend, the one who put his dad in jail? You're fucking deluded, Hermione. He's using you."

"Moron," Draco replied sharply. "I've already done all those things - though it was a walk through Diagon Alley, not the park. And honestly, I'll take whatever she's got on offer. I don't need you, Weasley, to point out all the reasons why Hermione could do better."

Hermione glanced up at him in surprise. It was rare that he showed any weakness in his arrogant shell. Her grip on his hand tightened, and she shot him a small, reassuring smile. At his vulnerable, nervous gaze, Ron and Harry seemed to fade into the background. Draco leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to her forehead.

Ron's foul mouth interrupted the sweet interlude.

"You can fucking _have_ her. You'll find out soon enough that she's frigid. You'd have a better time with a bottle of lotion," Ron hissed viciously. "You deserve one another."

Draco tore his gaze away from Hermione. An amused smile flitted across his lips. "Believe me, Weasley, we have no concerns in that department, as you might've guessed by the condition of Hermione's office. Given my firsthand... ah... knowledge, it seems to me that you're quick to blame her for what were evidently problems of your own making."

Ron's face turned mottled red. Harry, his face bright and embarrassed, tugged at Ron's arm, forcibly pulling him toward the office doorway. Draco snorted, a triumphant smile flitting past his lips, and began buttoning his shirt.

It was at that moment Ron turned back, racing toward Malfoy. In one remarkably swift movement, his fist connected with the back of Draco's head, sending the blonde tumbling to the ground.

Hermione flipped out her wand. " _Incarcerous_!"

Harry's was out at the same moment. " _Petrificus Totalis_!"

Ron fell, wholly incapacitated by both spells, to the ground. Harry sighed shot her a tired, resigned frown. Strange, how a month had twisted things so completely - that she and Harry had come to the defence of Draco Malfoy, and the third corner of their trio had turned on them.

Hermione suddenly realized that a crowd had gathered outside her office door - Percy, Ginny, and the entire Magical Creatures division staff. All stared in utter silence. You could hear a pin drop. Hermione's face flamed, and her heartbeat raced. But with Draco lying unconscious on the floor, her public embarrassment would have to wait.

Harry broke the silence. "I'll get a mediwizard."

Percy glanced around at the gawking Ministry employees, putting on his managerial facade full-force. "Is there a reason you're all standing here staring? I expect you all have work to do."

Her staff rushed away, whispering and wide-eyed. The news of a love triangle between Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy would be the talk of the Ministry by the end of the day.

As he rushed out, Hermione knelt beside Draco, brushing his cheek gently in the hopes he might come to.

"Whoa, Hermione. Malfoy, eh?" Ginny murmured from the doorway. "Kept that pretty under wraps."

"Hardly." Percy scoffed, then glanced down at his incapacitated brother. "I knew Ron wasn't quite right, but I didn't think he'd go so far as to attack an unarmed wizard whose back was turned to him."

"What do you mean unarmed?" Ginny asked.

"Malfoy. He's got magical restrictions on his wand." Percy shrugged. "To think, he's only got a week left before he's finished with his internship and probation. Then again, if Malfoy could hex, the two of them probably would've duelled this office into a pile of rubble."

Hermione glanced up at Percy. "Is that what you meant by Draco leaving?"

"Well... yes. Didn't Malfoy tell you?"

Hermione didn't answer, because at that moment, Malfoy's eyes fluttered open. Hermione let out a sigh of relief that she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"So you're the one who told Hermione I was leaving. Idiot - just because I don't want to stay on as an intern doesn't mean I'm quitting London, especially now that I have a reason to stay here," he groaned. "God, I feel like hell. Weasley?"

"Petrified and chained." Hermione brushed his hair from his face. "Stay still until you get checked out, okay?"

"I'm fine." He groaned as he tried to sit. "Didn't even see it coming."

"Exactly. You might have a concussion, and I'm not leaving you alone until I'm sure you're feeling all right."

"I can think of a course of treatment." He waggled one eyebrow suggestively, then cringed in pain. "Fuck, he hit me hard. That's the last time I try to defend a lady's honour."

"Shh, Love." At the endearment, a small smile tugged at his lips. "Here comes Harry with the mediwizard."

As he was transported to St. Mungo's, Hermione followed, and when the staff asked what her relationship with him was, she didn't hesitate in answering girlfriend.

* * *

 

As they walked back to Draco's flat, she felt curious eyes upon them. Every witch and wizard who passed by seemed to stare.

"How do they all seem to _know_? I mean, Weasley only knocked me out two hours ago," Malfoy muttered. "I feel like a circus performer."

She smiled. "We're not giving them much of a performance."

"You could fix that," he replied cheekily.

She raised herself up on her tiptoes, slipped her arms around his neck, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. He frowned, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like pathetic attempt, before sliding his hands down her backside and slipping his tongue into her mouth.

Her cheeks reddened. "Draco! We're in public."

He smirked. "Not for long."

"You're supposed to be resting."

"No, the mediwizard said to - quote - take it easy and avoid stress." He shrugged. "What better way to avoid stress than to go back to my flat and shag?"

She laughed, and slipped her hand through his. They walked in pleasant silence up the stairs to his flat. As she unwarded and opened the door, he slipped one hand over her arse and another over her breast.

"Draco!" she chided with a laugh. "At least take your potion before you start pawing at..."

Her words died in her mouth. Draco's eyes widened.

Narcissa Malfoy stood from the sofa and shot them a frosty smile. "Good evening, Draco. Miss Granger."


	16. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, just as it says on the tin. This is the last chapter of this story with a little smut and a short epilogue, and I would very much appreciate any kudos if you've enjoyed it so far. As I explained on the ff.net version, I didn't want to get super cliched and fluffy with the epilogue and tried to make it mostly HEA but realistic. 
> 
> Any and all comments - concrit, suggestions for sequels, suggestions for new works, or even a hello are welcomed. :-)

Hermione didn't know what to do. Years of fighting Voldemort had not prepared her for an encounter with Narcissa Malfoy. Especially not while her son's hand was firmly clamped to her arse. Hermione's eyes flickered to the closet, where she'd borrowed Narcissa's dress only a few days earlier.

She prayed Narcissa hadn't realized.

"Draco," Narcissa hissed.

"She's the one who showed up here unannounced," he muttered, but shoving his hands into his pockets instead.

"Draco, if you would sit down. Perhaps Miss Granger could return later," Narcissa suggested coolly.

"I don't think so, Mother. If you need to speak with me privately, I'll come by the Manor tomorrow."

Narcissa eyed her son and Hermione. Her mouth fractionally tightened. She gestured tersely to the empty chairs beside her. Hermione eyed Draco. He'd set his jaw, and she could see the stubbornness reflected in his silver eyes. His hand reached out for hers, gripping it tightly and overtly. He tugged her toward the sofa to sit beside him.

"I received an owl not half an hour ago from the Prophet, asking if I had any comment about the quote-unquote 'love triangle' that led to a brawl between yourself and Ronald Weasley this morning." Her nose crinkled. "Is it true?"

Draco eyed her. "What? The love triangle, or the brawling?"

"Don't be difficult." Narcissa sighed. "The son I raised wouldn't attract such distasteful, lowbrow attention to himself."

Hermione failed to suppress a snort; Draco was _always_ getting into fights and arguments. He positively _adored_ provoking people. Narcissa shot a frosty glare at her twitching lips.

"There's no love triangle other than in Ronald Weasley's pin-sized brain," Draco replied. "And I might have pointed out that fact, and Weasley was unable to control his baser urges in the face of unvarnished truth."

"So it's true," Narcissa replied coolly. "My son has turned into some... public brawler... over a mu-muggleborn who tried to destroy our family."

"Oh, don't be dramatic, Mother. I didn't strike Weasley, or anyone else for that matter. I was just putting on my shirt..." At this disclosure, Narcissa cringed, but Draco continued. "And Weasley struck me in the back of the head. Granger stunned him and called the Aurors and the mediwizards. He's been charged with assault. Even Potter gave a statement in my favour."

Narcissa's eyes fluttered shut. "My God. It'll be in all the papers. Everyone will know all of it."

Until this moment, Narcissa seemed to have ignored Hermione, and Hermione had thought it prudent to stay silent in the face of this awkward family argument.

"Don't you feel any shame?" Narcissa suddenly turned to her and hissed. "You're dragging our family through the filth."

Hermione's cheeks flushed hot, and her hands trembled. Draco felt it; she could feel his fingers tightening around hers and his eyes flickering toward her. She didn't have a chance to respond before Narcissa turned back to Draco and continued speaking.

"Draco, I'm sure that Miss Granger has many positive attributes. But where is this even going? Surely you realize the ramifications of even a brief assignation with the girl. Surely you haven't considered anything... else."

Draco glanced toward Hermione with a worried expression. She understood; he was worried that she expected a grand declaration of marriage and forever and ever. She gave him a reassuring smile, and he seemed to calm.

"I just don't know. I mean - we only really publicly said we're dating today." Draco shrugged. "But it's worth seeing where it's going."

"Oh, listen to yourself, Draco. Allowing things to spiral out of control on the off chance this mu-girl takes a fancy to you in the long term." Narcissa pursed her lips. "This must end. Don't worry, Miss Granger, I'm sure that we can work out suitable compensation in exchange for your cooperation."

"Pardon me?" Hermione's eyes hardened. "I'm with Draco because I fancy him. I'm not going to break it off for a payoff! What sort of person do you think I am?"

Draco's hand began to snake up her arm, gently tracing circles over that sensitive spot at the crook of her arm. When she glanced his way, he was looking at her with a peculiar, soft expression. His eyes grew cold, and Hermione almost felt sorry for Narcissa.

"You see, Granger's got substance - she's not like Pansy. And unlike last time you broke off a relationship of mine, now I am the one in control of the manor. Since Father's death, I've been very generous. I haven't requested you move to the Dower House. I haven't had any problem with you continuing to access the accounts and arrange the finances as you see fit. But if you continue to try to control me..." He paused for effect, looking shockingly similar to Lucius. "I will become significantly... less... generous."

Narcissa's eyes widened. "You've read the will?" At his silence, she finally muttered, "I think perhaps I should go."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mother. It's been a very trying day for Hermione and I. We need some rest."

She sashayed out without so much as a farewell. Hermione felt her face flame, and felt a vague sense of embarrassment at being witness to such a personal family dispute. Had she come between him and his mother?

"She'll be fine in a day or two, when she needs me at a dinner she's holding." He slipped his hand up to her throat, dragging his fingers gently over her jawline. "You were magnificent."

She raised one incredulous eyebrow.

"No, really. I mean..." He shrugged. "We were so rudely interrupted. Let's go to bed."

Hermione nodded; she understood that, although not yet at the point of declarations or engagements, this was a turning point. Draco Malfoy had - within one day - broken from his family's views, and publicly at that.

As she peeled his shirt off, he pressed gentle kisses along her throat. His fingers were slow and gentle as he removed each piece of her clothing. When finally, slowly, they were fully skin to skin, his long, slender body pressed atop hers, he murmured her name as he smoothed his hands over her collarbone, down her neck, over her breasts and stomach. She shivered as his arms slid beneath her, clamping her to him.

She wanted him inside her, desperately.

"Please, Draco," she whimpered, "Please."

He obliged her, sinking slowly into her body, grey eyes locked with brown. That familiar feeling; of stretching to meet his girth, of the slender plane of his body ebbing against her own. It was like coming home; too perfect to be just a fling.

Especially not after she'd come to know him - not just as someone to have sex with, but as a person.

His thrusts quickened. Her hands roamed down his back, squeezing his buttocks, his legs, his back, and he began to groan and throw his head back. At his undoing came hers; she whimpered and felt herself lose control of her own body. She let out a scream, twisting and stiffening under him.

"Draco... oh, God." She flailed against silk bed sheets, her insides clamping tightly against him. "I love you."

She felt him freeze, and for a moment, she worried that he had been frightened off by her sudden declaration. But then, he was coming, flooding her insides with wave after wave of warm, sticky seed.

His shout echoed through the room. "Oh, Gods, Hermione."

When, a moment later, both were limp and sticky in a pile of intertwined limbs, Draco lifted his sweaty face and shot her a lopsided smile. "I love you too."

Her lips pulled into a soft smile against his shoulder, and she felt one of his fingers twirl around a stray curl. Neither had made a move to uncouple their bodies.

"You'll stay the night, won't you?" he asked, and his voice held a quaver of uncertainty.

She nodded, and he pulled the blanket over them both.

* * *

 

_Six Months later..._

Hermione carefully wrapped each piece of glassware before packing it into the box.

"You can take the espresso machine. I know I paid into it when I was going through my latte phase, but I've realized that I'm not into poncy drinks. A good cuppa is fine for me," Ginny murmured. "As long as I can have the martini glasses."

"Oh, feel free. Draco's got a load of overpriced crystal bar ware at his flat." Hermione pursed her lips. "And that poor house-elf polishes it every week!"

Draco, walking out of her bedroom with a box of clothing, shot her a chiding glare. "Honestly? Are you on about Tinky again? She's getting paid."

"You pay your house-elf?" Ginny asked, eyebrow lifted. "I can't imagine."

He set aside the box, warming to the subject. "It was _supposed_ to be a compromise. I pay her, and Hermione stops harping on house-elf rights. Except my dearest girlfriend's always bothering Tinky about workload, and sick days, and vacation time, and the poor thing's been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. We've had to medicate her! St. Mungo's said they'd never seen anything quite..."

The door swung open at that moment. They glanced toward it, expecting Harry to return with the post-moving pizza and beer.

Instead, a stocky redhead shuffled in the doorway.

"What the hell are you doing here!" Draco snapped. "Your peace bond only ended two days ago!"

"I know," he muttered. "Look, I'll go if you want. I just... I wanted to apologize, okay? Hermione, I know I acted like a right git. And when Mum mentioned you were moving in with him..." He sighed. "It made me realize that it wasn't just a fling. And I've missed you - I've missed just being friends, the three of us, the way we used to be."

Ginny's eyes darted nervously between the redhead and her brunette friend. Draco's jaw clenched at the sight of Ron, but he held his tongue.

"I'm not the only one you treated like rubbish. Don't you think you should apologize to someone else?" Hermione asked tartly.

Ron flinched, and when he finally spoke, the words sounded forced. "Look, I'm sorry, Malfoy."

Malfoy wasn't going to make it easy for him. "For what?"

"For... punching you, I guess. And calling Hermione a bit of a bike because she'd taken up with you."

"I don't recall that being your exact wording, but close enough," Malfoy muttered. "I still don't like you, Weasley, but I accept your apology."

"Ronniekins, if you're going to hang around, could you at least make yourself useful and start packing something? My bridal magazines won't move themselves to Grimmauld Place," Ginny voice brooked no argument, sounding quite like her mother.

Ron nodded, and silently retreated to her bedroom, still looking pink-faced with embarrassment. Hermione felt a flood of relief; it was still awkward, and it would take time, but with time their friendship would be repaired.

Half an hour later, Harry arrived with the pizza and beer. Hermione and Draco took a break from the packing; Draco avoided the too-messy, too-Mugglish pizza, but cracked open a beer. Hermione glanced around the little flat she'd shared for so many months with Ginny. And, she realized suddenly, her relationship with Ron. By now, nearly everything had been boxed against one wall, leaving the place lonely and bare.

"One chapter ends, another begins," Draco murmured, as if sensing her thoughts.

"I think it'll be a good one," Hermione replied, eyes sparkling.

Draco smiled back at her. "I have no doubt about that, my darling."


End file.
